Unfilled 
Field 


George  THoore 


UBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIE6O 


1103 


The  Unfilled  Field 


t&e  §>ame 


SISTER    TERESA 

I2mo.      Decorated  Cloth, 
$1.50 

"  A  psychological  study  of 
extraordinary  power,  revealing 
the  fineness  of  George  Moore's 
literary  methods.  '  '  —  Philadel- 
phia Press 


The 
Untilled  Field 


BY 


George  Moore 

AUTHOR  OF  "  ESTHER  WATERS,"    "  EVELYN  INNES,' 
"SISTER  TERESA,"   ETC. 


Philadelphia 

J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 

1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1903 

BY 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

Published  Aprti^  iqo3 


Printed  by 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IN  THE  CLAY  9 

SOME  PARISHIONERS 33 

THE  EXILE  113 

HOME  SICKNESS  145 

A  LETTER  TO  ROME 165 

JULIA  CAHILL'S  CURSE  185 

A  PLAYHOUSE  IN  THE  WASTE  205 

THE  WEDDING-GOWN  223 

THE  CLERK'S  QUEST  239 

"  ALMS-GIVING"    249 

So  ON  HE  FARES  257 

THE  WILD  GOOSE  275 

THE  WAY  BACK 361 


IN  THE  CLAY 


IN    THE    CLAY 

IT  was  a  beautiful  summer  morning,  and  Rodney 
was  out  of  his  bed  at  six  o'clock.  He  usually  went  for 
a  walk  before  going  to  his  studio,  and  this  morning  his 
walk  had  been  a  very  pleasant  one,  for  yesterday's 
work  had  gone  well  with  him.  But  as  he  turned  into 
the  mews  in  which  his  studio  was  situated  he  saw  the 
woman  whom  he  employed  to  light  his  fire  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  roadway.  He  had  never  seen  her 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  roadway  before  and  his 
doors  wide  open,  and  he  instantly  divined  a  misfortune, 
and  thought  of  the  Virgin  and  Child  he  had  just  fin- 
ished. There  was  nothing  else  in  his  studio  that  he, 
cared  much  about.  A  few  busts,  done  long  ago,  and  a 
few  sketches;  no  work  of  importance,  nothing  that 
he  cared  about  or  that  could  not  be  replaced  if  it  were 
broken. 

He  hastened  his  steps  and  he  would  have  run  if  he 
had  not  been  ashamed  to  betray  his  fears  to  the  char- 
woman. 

"  I'm  afraid  someone  has  been  into  the  studio  last 
night.  The  hasp  was  off  the  door  when  I  came  this 
morning.  Some  of  the  things  are  broken." 

Rodney  heard  no  more.  He  stood  on  the  threshold 
looking  round  the  wrecked  studio.  Three  or  four  casts 
had  been  smashed,  the  floor  was  covered  with  broken 
plaster,  and  the  lay  figure  was  overthrown.  Rodney 
saw  none  of  these  things,  he  only  saw  that  his  Virgin 

9 


IN   THE   CLAY 

and  Child  was  not  on  the  modelling  stool,  and  not 
seeing  it  there,  he  hoped  that  the  group  had  been  stolen, 
anything  were  better  than  that  it  should  have  been 
destroyed.  But  this  is  what  had  happened :  the  group, 
now  a  mere  lump  of  clay,  lay  on  the  floor,  and  the 
modelling  stand  lay  beside  it. 

"  I  cannot  think,"  said  the  charwoman,  "  who  has 
done  this.  It  was  a  wicked  thing  to  do.  Oh,  sir,  they 
have  broken  this  beautiful  statue  that  you  had  in  the 
Exhibition  last  year,"  and  she  picked  up  the  broken 
fragments  of  a  sleeping  girl. 

"  That  doesn't  matter,"  said  Rodney.  "  My  group 
is  gone." 

"  But  that,  sir,  was  only  in  the  clay.  May  I  be  help- 
ing you  to  pick  it  up,  sir  ?  It  is  not  broken  altogether 
perhaps." 

Rodney  waved  her  aside.  He  was  pale  and  he  could 
not  speak,  and  was  trembling.  He  had  not  the  courage 
to  untie  the  cloths,  for  he  knew  there  was  nothing 
underneath  but  clay,  and  his  manner  was  so  strange 
that  the  charwoman  was  frightened.  He  stood  like 
one  dazed  by  a  dream.  He  could  not  believe  in  reality, 
it  was  too  mad,  too  discordant,  too  much  like  a  night- 
mare. He  had  only  finished  the  group  yesterday ! 

He  still  called  it  his  Virgin  and  Child,  but  it  had 
never  been  a  Virgin  and  Child  in  the  sense  suggested 
by  the  capital  letters,  for  he  had  not  yet  put  on  the 
drapery  that  would  convert  a  naked  girl  and  her  baby 
into  the  Virgin  and  Child.  He  had  of  course  modelled 
his  group  in  the  nude  first,  and  Harding,  who  had  been 
with  him  the  night  before  last,  had  liked  it  much  better 
than  anything  he  had  done,  Harding  had  said  that  he 
must  not  cover  it  with  draperies,  that  he  must  keep  it 

10 


IN   THE   CLAY 

for  himself,  a  naked  girl  playing  with  a  baby,  a  piece 
of  paganism.  The  girl's  head  was  not  modelled  when 
Harding  had  seen  it.  It  was  the  conventional  Virgin's 
head,  but  Harding  had  said  that  he  must  send  for  his 
model  and  put  his  model's  head  upon  it.  He  had 
taken  Harding's  advice  and  had  sent  for  Lucy,  and 
had  put  her  pretty,  quaint  little  head  upon  it.  He  had 
done  a  portrait  of  Lucy.  If  this  terrible  accident  had 
not  happened  last  night,  the  caster  would  have  come 
to  cast  it  to-morrow,  and  then,  following  Harding's 
advice  always,  he  would  have  taken  a  "  squeeze,"  and 
when  he  got  it  back  to  the  clay  again  he  was  going  to 
put  on  a  conventional  head,  and  add  the  conventional 
draperies,  and  make  the  group  into  the  conventional 
Virgin  and  Child,  suitable  to  Father  McCabe's  cathe- 
dral. 

This  was  the  last  statue  he  would  do  in  Ireland. 
He  was  leaving  Ireland.  On  this  point  his  mind  was 
made  up,  and  the  money  he  was  going  to  receive  for 
this  statue  was  the  money  that  was  going  to  take  him 
away.  He  had  had  enough  of  a  country  where  there 
had  never  been  any  sculpture  or  any  painting,  nor  any 
architecture  to  signify.  They  were  talking  about  re- 
viving the  Gothic,  but  Rodney  did  not  believe  in  their 
resurrections  or  in  their  renaissance  or  in  their  any- 
thing. "  The  Gael  has  had  his  day.  The  Gael  is  pass- 
ing." Only  the  night  before  he  and  Harding  had  had 
a  long  talk  about  the  Gael,  and  he  had  told  Harding 
that  he  had  given  up  the  School  of  Art,  that  he  was 
leaving  Ireland,  and  Harding  had  thought  that  this 
was  an  extreme  step,  but  Rodney  had  said  that  he  did 
not  want  to  die,  that  no  one  wanted  to  die  less  than  he 
did,  but  he  thought  he  would  sooner  die  than  go  on 

ii 


IN   THE  CLAY 

teaching.  He  had  made  some  reputation  and  had 
orders  that  would  carry  him  on  for  some  years,  and 
he  was  going  where  he  could  execute  them,  to  where 
there  were  models,  to  where  there  was  art,  to  where 
there  was  the  joy  of  life,  out  of  a  damp  religious  atmos- 
phere in  which  nothing  flourished  but  the  religious 
vocation. 

"  Good  Heavens !  How  happy  I  was  yesterday,  full 
of  hope  and  happiness,  my  statue  finished,  and  I  had 
arranged  to  meet  Harding  in  Rome.  The  blow  had 
fallen  in  the  night.  Who  had  done  this?  Who  had 
destroyed  it  ?" 

He  fell  into  a  chair,  and  sat  helpless  like  his  own  lay 
figure.  He  sat  there  like  one  on  whom  some  stupor 
had  fallen,  and  he  was  as  white  as  one  of  the  casts; 
the  charwoman  had  never  seen  anyone  give  way  like 
that  before,  and  she  withdrew  very  quietly. 

In  a  little  while  he  got. up  and  mechanically  kicked 
the  broken  pieces  of  plaster  aside.  The  charwoman 
was  right,  they  had  broken  his  sleeping  girl :  that  did 
not  matter  much,  but  the  beautiful  slenderness,  the 
grace  he  had  caught  from  Lucy's  figure — those  slender- 
nesses,  those  flowing  rhythms,  all  these  were  gone; 
the  lovely  knees  were  ugly  clay.  Yes,  there  was  the 
ruin,  the  ignoble  ruin,  and  he  could  not  believe  in  it; 
he  still  hoped  he  would  wake  and  find  he  had  been 
dreaming,  so  difficult  is  it  to  believe  that  the  living 
have  turned  to  clay. 

In  front  of  him  there  was  the  cheval  glass,  and 
overcome  though  he  was  by  misfortune  he  noticed  that 
he  was  a  small,  pale,  wiry,  and  very  dark  little  man, 
with  a  large  bony  forehead.  He  had  seen,  strangely 
enough,  such  a  bumpy  forehead,  and  such  narrow  eyes 

12 


IN   THE  CLAY 

in  a  Florentine  bust,  and  it  was  some  satisfaction  to 
him  to  see  that  he  was  the  typical  Italian. 

"  If  I  had  lived  three  hundred  years  ago,"  he  said, 
"  I  should  have  been  one  of  Cellini's  apprentices." 

And  yet  he  was  the  son  of  a  Dublin  builder!  His 
father  had  never  himself  thought  to  draw,  but  he  had 
always  taken  an  interest  in  sculpture  and  painting,  and 
he  had  said  before  Rodney  was  born  that  he  would 
like  to  have  a  son  a  sculptor.  And  he  waited  for  the 
little  boy  to  show  some  signs  of  artistic  aptitude.  He 
pondered  every  scribble  the  boy  made,  and  scribbles 
that  any  child  at  the  same  age  could  have  done  filled 
him  with  admiration.  But  when  Rodney  was  fourteen 
he  remodelled  some  leaves  that  had  failed  to  please  an 
important  customer;  and  his  father  was  overcome 
with  joy,  and  felt  that  his  hopes  were  about  to  be  real- 
ised. For  the  customer,  who  professed  a  certain  artis- 
tic knowledge,  praised  the  leaves  that  Rodney  had 
designed,  and  soon  after  Rodney  gave  a  still  further 
proof  of  his  desire  for  art  by  telling  his  mother  he 
did  not  care  to  go  to  Mass,  that  Mass  depressed  him 
and  made  him  feel  unhappy,  and  he  had  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  stay  at  home  and  do  some  modelling.  His 
father  excused  his  son's  want  of  religious  feeling  on 
the  ground  that  no  one  can  think  of  two  things  at  once, 
and  John  was  now  bent  on  doing  sculpture.  He  had 
converted  a  little  loft  into  a  studio,  and  was  at  work 
there  from  dusk  to  dusk,  and  his  father  used  to  steal 
up  the  ladder  from  time  to  time  to  watch  his  son's 
progress.  He  used  to  say  there  was  no  doubt  that  he 
had  been  forewarned,  and  his  wife  had  to  admit  that 
it  did  seem  as  if  he  had  had  some  pre-vision  of  his  son's 
genius :  how  else  explain  the  fact  that  he  had  said  he 

13 


IN   THE  CLAY 

would  like  to  have  a  son  a  sculptor  three  months  before 
the  child  was  born? 

Rodney  said  he  would  like  to  go  to  the  School  of  Art, 
and  his  father  kept  him  there  for  two  years,  though 
he  sorely  wanted  him  to  help  in  the  business.  There 
was  no  sacrifice  that  the  elder  Rodney  would  not  have 
made  for  his  son.  But  Rodney  knew  that  he  could 
not  always  count  upon  his  father's  help,  and  one  day 
he  realised  quite  clearly  that  the  only  way  for  him  to 
become  a  sculptor  was  by  winning  scholarships.  There 
were  two  waiting  to  be  won  by  him,  and  he  felt  that 
he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  winning  them.  That 
year  there  was  a  scholarship  for  twenty-five  pounds, 
and  there  was  another  scholarship  that  he  might  win 
in  the  following  year,  and  he  thought  of  nothing  else 
but  these  scholarships  until  he  had  won  them ;  then 
he  started  for  Paris  with  fifty  pounds  in  his  pocket, 
and  a  resolve  in  his  heart  that  he  would  live  for  a  year 
and  pay  his  fees  out  of  this  sum  of  money.  Those 
were  hard  days,  but  they  were  likewise  great  days. 
He  had  been  talking  to  Harding  about  those  days  in 
Paris  the  night  before  last,  and  he  had  told  him  of  the 
room  at  the  top  of  the  house  for  which  he  paid  thirty 
francs  a  month.  There  was  a  policeman  on  one  side 
and  there  was  a  footman  on  the  other.  It  was  a  bare 
little  room,  and  he  lived  principally  on  bread.  In  those 
days  his  only  regret  was  that  he  had  not  the  necessary 
threepence  to  go  to  the  cafe.  "  One  can't  go  to  the 
cafe  without  threepence  to  pay  for  the  harmless  bock, 
and  if  one  has  threepence  one  can  sit  in  the  cafe  discuss- 
ing Carpeaux,  Rodin,  and  the  mysteries,  until  two  in 
the  morning,  when  one  is  at  last  ejected  by  an  ex- 
hausted proprietor  at  the  head  of  numerous  waiters." 

14 


IN   THE  CLAY 

Rodney's  resolutions  were  not  broken ;  he  had  man- 
aged to  live  for  nearly  a  year  in  Paris  upon  fifty 
pounds,  and  when  he  came  to  the  end  of  his  money  he 
went  to  London  in  search  of  work.  He  found  himself 
in  London  with  two  pounds,  but  he  had  got  work  from 
a  sculptor,  a  pupil  of  Dalous :  "  a  clever  man,"  Rodney 
said,  "  a  good  sculptor ;  it  is  a  pity  he  died."  At  this 
time  Garvier  was  in  fairly  good  health  and  had  plenty 
of  orders,  and  besides  Rodney  he  employed  three 
Italian  carvers,  and  from  these  Italians  Rodney  learned 
Italian,  and  he  spent  two  years  in  London  earning 
three  pounds  a  week.  But  the  time  came  when  the 
sculptor  had  no  more  work  for  Rodney,  and  one  day 
he  told  him  that  he  would  not  require  him  that  week, 
there  was  no  work  for  him,  nor  was  there  the  next 
week  or  the  next,  and  Rodney  kicked  his  heels  and 
pondered  Elgin  marbles  for  a  month.  Then  he  got  a 
letter  from  the  sculptor  saying  he  had  some  work  for 
him  to  do ;  and  it  was  a  good  job  of  work,  and  Rodney 
remained  with  Garvier  for  two  months,  knowing  very 
well  that  his  three  pounds  a  week  was  precarious  for- 
tune. Some  time  after,  the  sculptor's  health  began  to 
fail  him  and  he  had  to  leave  London.  Rodney  received, 
news  of  his  death  two  years  afterwards.  He  was  then 
teaching  sculpture  in  the  art  schools  of  Northampton, 
and  he  wondered  whether,  if  Garvier  had  lived,  he 
would  have  succeeded  in  doing  better  work  than  he 
had  done. 

From  Northampton  he  went  to  Edinburgh,,  he  wan- 
dered even  as  far  as  Inverness.  From  Inverness  he 
had  been  called  back  to  Dublin,  and  for  seven  years 
he  had  taught  in  the  School  of  Art,  saving  money  every 
year,  putting  by  a  small  sum  of  money  out  of  the  two 

IS 


IN   THE   CLAY 

hundred  pounds  that  he  received  from  the  Government, 
and  all  the  money  he  got  for  commissions.  He  ac- 
cepted any  commission,  he  had  executed  bas-reliefs 
from  photographs.  He  was  determined  to  purchase 
his  freedom,  and  a  sculptor  requires  money  more  than 
any  other  artist. 

Rodney  had  always  looked  upon  Dublin  as  a  place 
to  escape  from.  He  had  always  desired  a  country 
where  there  was  sunshine  and  sculpture.  The  day  his 
father  took  him  to  the  School  of  Art  he  had  left  his 
father  talking  to  the  head-master,  and  had  wandered 
away  to  look  at  a  Florentine  bust,  and  this  first  glimpse 
of  Italy  had  convinced  him  that  he  must  go  to  Italy 
and  study  Michael  Angelo  and  Donatello.  Only  twice 
had  he  relaxed  the  severity  of  his  rule  of  life  and  spent 
his  holidays  in  Italy.  He  had  gone  there  with  forty 
pounds  in  his  pocket,  and  had  studied  art  where  art 
had  grown  up  naturally,  independent  of  Government 
grants  and  mechanical  instruction,  in  a  mountain  town 
like  Perugia;  and  his  natural  home  had  seemed  to 
him  those  narrow,  white  streets  streaked  with  blue 
shadows.  "  Oh,  how  blue  the  shadows  are  there  in 
the  morning,"  he  had  said  the  other  night  to  Harding, 
"  and  the  magnificent  sculpture  and  painting !  In  the 
afternoon  the  sun  is  too  hot,  but  at  evening  one  stands 
at  the  walls  of  the  town  and  sees  sunsets  folding  and 
unfolding  over  Italy.  I  am  at  home  amid  those  South- 
ern people,  and  a  splendid  pagan  life  is  always  before 
one's  eyes,  ready  to  one's  hand.  Beautiful  girls  and 
boys  are  always  knocking  at  one's  doors.  Beautiful 
nakedness  abounds.  Sculpture  is  native  to  the  orange 
zone — the  embers  of  the  renaissance  smoulder  under 
orange-trees." 

16 


IN   THE  CLAY 

He  had  never  believed  in  any  Celtic  renaissance,  and 
all  the  talk  he  had  heard  about  stained  glass  and  the 
revivals  did  not  deceive  him.  "  Let  the  Gael  disap- 
pear," he  said.  "  He  is  doing  it  very  nicely.  Do  not 
interfere  with  his  instinct.  His  instinct  is  to  disappear 
in  America.  Since  Cormac's  Chapel  he  has  built 
nothing  but  mud  cabins.  Since  the  Cross  of  Cong  he 
has  imported  Virgins  from  Germany.  However,  if 
they  want  sculpture  in  this  last  hour  I  will  do  some 
for  them." 

And  Rodney  had  designed  several  altars  and  had 
done  some  religious  sculpture,  or,  as  he  put  it  to  him- 
self, he  had  done  some  sculpture  on  religious  themes. 
There  was  no  such  thing  as  religious  sculpture,  and 
could  not  be.  The  moment  art,  especially  sculpture, 
passes  out  of  the  domain  of  the  folk  tale  it  becomes 
pagan. 

One  of  Rodney's  principal  patrons  was  a  certain 
Father  McCabe,  who  had  begun  life  by  making  an 
ancient  abbey  ridiculous  by  adding  a  modern  steeple. 
He  had  ruined  two  parishes  by  putting  up  churches 
so  large  that  his  parishioners  could  not  afford  to  keep 
them  in  repair.  All  this  was  many  years  ago,  and  the 
current  story  was  that  a  great  deal  of  difficulty  had 
been  experienced  in  settling  Father  McCabe's  debts, 
and  that  the  Bishop  had  threatened  to  suspend  him  if 
he  built  any  more.  However  this  may  be,  nothing  was 
heard  of  Father  McCabe  for  fifteen  years.  He  retired 
entirely  into  private  life,  but  at  his  Bishop's  death  he 
was  heard  of  in  the  newspapers  as  the  propounder  of 
a  scheme  for  the  revival  of  Irish  Romanesque.  He  had 
been  to  America,  and  had  collected  a  large  sum  of 
money,  and  had  got  permission  from  his  Bishop  to  set 
2  17 


IN   THE  CLAY 

an  example  of  what  Ireland  could  do  "  in  the  line"  of 
Cormac's  Chapel. 

Rodney  had  designed  an  altar  for  him,  and  he  had 
also  given  Rodney  a  commission  for  a  statue  of  the 
Virgin.  There  were  no  models  in  Dublin.  There  was 
no  nakedness  worth  a  sculptor's  while.  One  of  the  two 
fat  unfortunate  women  that  the  artists  of  Dublin  had 
been  living  upon  for  the  last  seven  years  was  in  child, 
the  other  had  gone  to  England,  and  the  memory  of 
them  filled  Rodney  with  loathing  and  contempt  and  an 
extraordinary  eagerness  for  Italy.  He  had  been  on  the 
point  of  telling  Father  McCabe  that  he  could  not 
undertake  to  do  the  Virgin  and  Child  because  there 
were  no  models.  He  had  just  stopped  in  time.  He 
had  suddenly  remembered  that  the  priest  did  not  know 
that  sculptors  use  models;  that  he  did  not  know,  at 
all  events,  that  a  nude  model  would  be  required  to 
model  a  Virgin  from,  and  he  had  replied  ambiguously, 
making  no  promise  to  do  this  group  before  he  left 
Ireland.  "  If  I  can  get  a  model  here  I  will  do  it,"  he 
had  said  to  himself.  "  If  not,  the  ecclesiastic  will  have 
to  wait  until  I  get  to  Italy." 

Rodney  no  more  believed  in  finding  a  good  model 
in  Dublin  than  he  believed  in  Christianity.  But  the 
unexpected  had  happened.  He  had  discovered  in  Dub- 
lin the  most  delicious  model  that  had  ever  enchanted  a 
sculptor's  eyes,  and  this  extraordinary  good  fortune 
had  happened  in  the  simplest  way.  He  had  gone  to  a 
solicitor's  office  to  sign  an  agreement  for  one  of  Father 
McCabe's  altars,  and  as  he  came  in  he  saw  a  girl  rise 
from  her  typewriting  machine.  There  was  a  strange 
idle  rhythm  in  her  walk  as  she  crossed  the  office,  and 
Rodney,  as  he  stood  watching  her,  divined  long  taper- 

18 


IN   THE   CLAY 

ing  legs  and  a  sinuous  back.  He  did  not  know  what 
her  face  was  like.  Before  she  had  time  to  turn  round, 
Mr.  Lawrence  had  called  him  into  his  office,  and  he 
had  been  let  out  by  a  private  door.  Rodney  had  been 
dreaming  of  a  good  model,  of  the  true  proportions  and 
delicate  articulations  that  in  Paris  and  Italy  are  knock- 
ing at  your  door  all  day,  and  this  was  the  very  model 
he  wanted  for  his  girl  feeding  chickens  and  for  his 
Virgin,  and  he  thought  of  several  other  things  he 
might  do  from  her.  But  he  might  as  well  wish  for  a 
star  out  of  heaven,  for  if  he  were  to  ask  that  girl  to 
sit  to  him  she  would  probably  scream  with  horror; 
she  would  run  to  her  confessor,  and  the  clergy  would 
be  up  in  arms.  Rodney  had  put  the  girl  out  of  his 
head,  and  had  gone  on  with  his  design  for  an  altar. 
But  luck  had  followed  him  for  this  long  while,  and  a 
few  days  afterwards  he  had  met  the  pretty  clerk  in  a 
tea-room.  He  had  not  seen  her  face  before,  and  he 
did  not  know  who  it  was  until  she  turned  to  go,  and 
as  she  was  paying  for  her  tea  at  the  desk  he  asked  her 
if  Mr.  Lawrence  were  in  town.  He  could  see  that  she 
was  pleased  at  being  spoken  to.  Her  eyes  were  alert, 
and  she  told  him  that  she  knew  he  was  doing  altars 
for  Father  McCabe,  and  Father  McCabe  was  a  cousin 
of  hers,  and  her  father  had  a  cheese-monger's  shop,  and 
their  back  windows  overlooked  the  mews  in  which 
Rodney  had  his  studio. 

"  How  late  you  work !  Sometimes  your  light  does 
not  go  out  until  twelve  o'clock  at  night." 

Henceforth  he  met  her  at  tea  in  the  afternoons,  and 
they  went  to  the  museum  together,  and  she  promised 
to  try  to  get  leave  from  her  father  and  mother  to  sit  to 
him  for  a  bust.  But  she  could  only  sit  to  him  for  an 

19 


IN   THE   CLAY 

hour  or  two  before  she  went  to  Mr.  Lawrence,  and 
Rodney  said  that  she  would  be  doing  him  an  extraor- 
dinary favour  if  she  would  get  up  some  hours  earlier 
and  sit  to  him  from  eight  till  ten.  It  was  amusing  to 
do  the  bust,  but  the  bust  was  only  a  pretext.  What  he 
wanted  her  to  do  was  to  sit  for  the  nude,  and  he  could 
not  help  trying  to  persuade  her,  though  he  did  not 
believe  for  a  moment  that  he  would  succeed.  He  took 
her  to  the  museum  and  he  showed  her  the  nude,  and 
told  her  how  great  ladies  sat  for  painters  in  the  old 
times.  He  prepared  the  way  very  carefully,  and  when 
the  bust  was  finished  he  told  her  suddenly  that  he  must 
go  to  a  country  where  he  could  get  models.  He  could 
see  she  was  disappointed  at  losing  him,  and  he  asked 
her  if  she  would  sit. 

"  You  don't  want  a  nude  model  for  Our  Blessed 
Lady.  Do  you  ?" 

There  was  a  look,  half  of  hesitation,  half  of  pleasure, 
and  he  knew  that  she  would  sit  to  him,  and  he  guessed 
she  would  have  sat  to  him  long  ago  if  he  had  asked 
her.  No  doubt  his  long  delay  in  asking  her  to  sit  had 
made  her  fear  he  did  not  think  her  figure  a  good  one. 

He  had  never  had  such  a  model  before,  not  in  France 
or  in  Italy,  and  had  done  the  best  piece  of  work  he  had 
ever  done  in  his  life.  Harding  had  seen  it,  and  had 
said  that  it  was  the  best  piece  that  he  had  done.  Hard- 
ing had  said  that  he  would  buy  it  from  him  if  he  got 
rid  of  the  conventional  head,  and  when  Harding  had 
left  him  he  had  lain  awake  all  night  thinking  how  he 
should  model  Lucy's  head,  and  he  was  up  and  ready 
for  her  at  eight,  and  had  done  the  best  head  he  had 
ever  done  in  his  life. 

Good  God !  that  head  was  now  flattened  out,  and  the 
20 


IN   THE  CLAY 

child  was  probably  thrown  back  over  the  shoulders. 
Nothing  remained  of  his  statue.  He  had  not  the 
strength  to  do  or  to  think.  He  was  like  a  lay  figure, 
without  strength  for  anything,  and  if  he  were  to  hear 
that  an  earthquake  was  shaking  Dublin  into  ruins  he 
would  not  care.  "  Shake  the  whole  town  into  the  sea," 
he  would  have  said. 

The  charwoman  had  closed  the  door,  and  he  did  not 
hear  Lucy  until  she  was  in  the  studio. 

"  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  cannot  sit  again. 
But  what  has  happened  ?" 

Rodney  got  up,  and  she  could  see  that  his  misfor- 
tune was  greater  than  her's. 

"  Who  has  done  this  ?"  she  said.  "  Your  casts  are 
all  broken." 

"  Who,  indeed,  has  done  this  ?" 

"  Who  broke  them  ?  What  has  happened  ?  Tell  me. 
They  have  broken  the  bust  you  did  of  me.  And  the 
statue  of  the  Virgin — has  anything  happened  to  that  ?" 

"  The  statue  of  the  Virgin  is  a  lump  of  clay.  Oh, 
don't  look  at  it.  I  am  out  of  my  mind." 

She  took  two  or  three  steps  forward. 

"  There  it  is,"  he  said.  "  Don't  speak  about  it,  don't 
touch  it." 

"  Something  may  be  left." 

"  No,  nothing  is  left.  Don't  look  at  me  that  way. 
I  tell  you  nothing  is  left.  It  is  a  lump  of  clay,  and  I 
cannot  do  it  again.  I  feel  as  if  I  never  could  do  a 
piece  of  sculpture  again,  as  if  I  never  wanted  to.  But 
what  are  you  thinking  of?  You  said  just  now  that 
you  could  not  sit  to  me  again.  Tell  me,  Lucy,  and 
tell  me  quickly.  I  can  see  you  know  something  about 
this.  You  suspect  someone." 

21 


IN   THE   CLAY 

"  No,  I  suspect  no  one.    It  is  very  strange." 

"  You  were  going  to  tell  me  something  when  you 
came  in.  You  said  you  could  not  sit  to  me  again. 
Why  is  that?" 

"  Because  they  have  found  out  everything  at  home, 
that  I  sat  for  you,  for  the  Virgin." 

"  But  they  don't  know  that " 

"  Yes,  they  do.  They  know  everything.  Father 
McCabe  came  in  last  night,  just  after  we  had  closed 
the  shop.  It  was  I  who  let  him  in,  and  mother  was 
sorry.  She  knew  he  had  come  to  ask  father  for  a 
subscription  to  his  church.  But  I  had  said  that  father 
and  mother  were  at  home,  and  when  I  brought  him 
upstairs  and  we  got  into  the  light,  he  stood  looking  at 
me.  He  had  not  seen  me  for  some  years,  and  I  thought 
at  first  it  was  because  he  saw  me  grown  up.  He  sat 
down,  and  began  to  talk  to  father  and  mother  about 
his  church,  and  the  altars  he  had  ordered  for  it,  and 
the  statues,  and  then  he  said  that  you  were  doing  a 
statue  for  him,  and  mother  said  that  she  knew  you 
very  well,  and  that  you  sometimes  came  to  spend  an 
evening  with  us,  and  that  I  sat  to  you.  It  was  then 
that  I  saw  him  give  a  start.  Unfortunately,  I  was 
sitting  under  a  lamp  reading  a  book,  and  the  light  was 
full  upon  my  face,  and  he  had  a  good  view  of  it.  I 
could  see  that  he  recognised  me  at  once.  You  must 
have  shown  him  the  statue.  It  was  yesterday  you 
changed  the  head." 

"  You  had  not  gone  an  hour  when  he  called,  and  I 
had  not  covered  up  the  group.  Now  I  am  beginning 
to  see  light.  He  came  here  anxious  to  discuss  every 
sort  of  thing  with  me,  the  Irish  Romanesque,  the 
Celtic  renaissance,  stained  glass,  the  possibility  of 

22 


IN   THE  CLAY 

rebuilding  another  Cormac's  Chapel.  He  sat  warming 
his  shins  before  the  stove,  and  I  thought  he  would  have 
gone  on  for  ever  arguing  about  the  possibility  of  re- 
turning to  origins  of  art.  I  had  to  stop  him,  he  was 
wasting  all  my  day,  and  I  brought  over  that  table  to 
show  him  my  design  for  the  altar.  He  said  it  was 
not  large  enough,  and  he  took  hours  to  explain  how 
much  room  the  priest  would  require  for  his  book  and 
his  chalice.  I  .thought  I  should  never  have  got  rid  of 
him.  He  wanted  to  know  about  the  statue  of  the 
Virgin,  and  he  was  not  satisfied  when  I  told  him  it 
was  not  finished.  He  prowled  about  the  studio,  look- 
ing into  everything.  I  had  sent  him  a  sketch  for  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  and  he  recognised  the  pose  as  the 
same,  and  he  began  to  argue.  I  told  him  that  sculptors 
always  used  models,  and  that  even  a  draped  figure  had 
to  be  done  from  the  nude  first,  and  that  the  drapery 
went  on  afterwards.  It  was  foolish  to  tell  him  these 
things,  but  one  is  tempted  to  tread  on  their  ignorance, 
their  bigotry;  all  they  say  and  do  is  based  on  hatred 
of  life.  Iconoclast  and  peasant!  He  sent  some  re- 
ligion-besotted slave  to  break  my  statue." 

"  I  don't  think  Father  McCabe  would  have  done 
that;  he  has  got  me  into  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  but 
you  are  wronging  him.  He  would  not  get  a  ruffian 
to  break  into  your  studio." 

Rodney  and  Lucy  stood  looking  at  each  other,  and 
she  had  spoken  with  such  conviction  that  he  felt  she 
might  be  right. 

"  But  who  else  could  do  it  except  the  priest  ?  No 
one  had  any  interest  in  having  it  done  except  the 
priest.  He  as  much  as  told  me  that  he  would  never 
get  any  pleasure  from  the  statue  now  that  he  knew  it 

23 


IN   THE   CLAY 

had  been  done  from  a  naked  woman.  He  went  away 
thinking  it  out.  Ireland  is  emptying  before  them.  By 
God,  it  must  have  been  he.  Now  it  all  comes  back  to 
me.  He  has  as  much  as  said  that  something  of  the 
temptation  of  the  naked  woman  would  transpire 
through  the  draperies.  He  said  that.  He  said  that 
it  would  be  a  very  awful  thing  if  the  temptations  of 
the  flesh  were  to  transpire  through  the  draperies  of 
the  Virgin.  From  the  beginning  they  have  looked 
upon  women  as  unclean  things.  They  have  hated 
woman.  Woman  have  to  cover  up  their  heads  before 
they  go  into  the  churches.  Everything  is  impure  in 
their  eyes,  in  their  impure  eyes,  whereas  I  saw 
nothing  in  you  but  loveliness.  He  was  shocked  by 
those  round  tapering  legs ;  and  would  have  liked 
to  curse  them;  and  the  dainty  design  of  the  hips, 
the  beautiful  little  hips,  and  the  breasts  curved  like 
shells,  that  I  modelled  so  well.  It  is  he  who  blas- 
phemes. They  blaspheme  against  Life.  .  .  .  My  God, 
what  a  vile  thing  is  the  religious  mind.  And  all  the 
love  and  veneration  that  went  into  that  statue !  There 
it  is :  only  a  lump  of  clay." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  wronging  Father  Tom ;  he  has 
his  faults,  but  he  would  not  do  such  a  thing  as  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rodney,  "  he  would.  I  know  them 
better  than  you.  I  know  the  creed.  But  you  did  not 
finish  your  story.  Tell  me  what  happened  when  he 
began  to  suspect  that  you  sat  for  the  statue." 

"  He  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  statue  of  the  Virgin 
in  your  studio.  I  grew  red  all  over.  I  could  not 
answer  him,  and  mother  said,  '  Why  don't  you  answer 
Father  Tom?'  I  could  see  from  his  manner  that  he 
knew  that  I  had  sat  for  the  statue.  And  then  he  said 

24 


IN   THE   CLAY 

he  wanted  to  speak  to  father  and  mother.  Mother  said 
I  had  read  enough,  that  I  had  better  go  to  bed." 

"  And  you  went  out  of  the  room  knowing  what  the 
priest  was  going  to  say?"  said  Rodney,  melting  into 
sympathy  for  the  first  time.  "  And  then  ?" 

"  I  waited  on  the  stairs  for  a  little  while,  long  enough 
to  make  sure  that  he  was  telling  them  that  I  had  sat 
for  the  statue.  I  heard  the  door  open,  father  came  out, 
they  talked  on  the  landing.  I  fled  into  my  room  and 
locked  the  door,  and  just  as  I  locked  the  door  I  heard 
father  say,  '  My  daughter !  you're  insulting  my  daugh- 
ter!' You  know  father  is  suffering  from  stone,  and 
mother  said,  '  If  you  don't  stop  I  shall  be  up  with  you 
all  night,'  and  so  she  was.  All  the  night  I  heard  father 
moaning,  and  to-day  he  is  so  ill  the  doctor  is  with  him, 
and  he  has  been  taken  to  the  hospital,  and  mother  says 
when  he  leaves  the  hospital  he  will  turn  me  out  of  the 
house." 

"  Well,"  said  Rodney,  "  great  misfortunes  have  hap- 
pened us  both.  It  was  a  cruel  thing  of  the  priest  to  tell 
your  father  that  you  sat  for  me.  But  to  pay  someone  to 
wreck  my  studio !" 

Lucy  begged  of  him  not  to  believe  too  easily  that 
Father  McCabe  had  done  this.  He  must  wait  a  little 
while,  and  he  had  better  communicate  with  the  police. 
They  would  be  able  to  find  out  who  had  done  it. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  I  must  go." 

He  glanced  at  the  rags  that  had  once  covered  his 
statue,  but  he  had  not  the  courage  to  undo  them.  If 
his  statue  had  been  cast  the  ruin  would  not  be  so  irrep- 
arable. It  could  be  put  together  in  some  sort  of  way. 

Who  would  have  done  it  but  the  priest?  It  was 
difficult  to  believe  that  a  priest  could  do  such  a  thing, 

25 


IN   THE   CLAY 

that  anyone  could  do  such  a  thing,  it  was  an  inhuman 
thing  to  do.  He  might  go  to  the  police  as  Lucy  had 
suggested,  and  the  police  would  inquire  the  matter  out. 
But  would  that  be  of  any  satisfaction ;  a  wretched  fine, 
a  few  days'  imprisonment.  Of  one  thing  he  was  sure, 
that  nowhere  except  in  Ireland  could  such  a  thing  hap- 
pen. Thank  God  he  was  going!  There  was  at  least 
satisfaction  in  knowing  that  only  twelve  hours  of  Ire- 
land remained.  To-morrow  evening  he  would  be  in 
Paris.  He  would  leave  the  studio  as  it  was.  Maybe 
he  might  take  a  few  busts  and  sketches,  a  few  books, 
and  a  few  pictures ;  he  must  take  some  of  them  with 
him,  and  he  tried  to  formulate  some  plan.  But  he  could 
not  collect  his  thoughts  sufficiently  to  think  out  the 
details.  Would  there  be  time  to  have  a  case  made,  or 
should  he  leave  them  to  be  sold,  or  should  he  give 
orders  that  they  should  be  sent  after  him  ? 

At  that  moment  his  eyes  went  towards  the  lump  of 
clay,  and  he  wished  that  he  had  asked  the  charwoman 
to  take  it  out  of  his  studio.  He  thought  of  it  as  one 
thinks  of  a  corpse,  and  he  took  down  a  few  books  and 
tied  them  up  with  a  string,  and  then  forgot  what  he 
was  doing.  He  and  his  country  were  two  thousand 
years  apart,  and  would  always  be  two  thousand  years 
apart,  and  then  growing  superstitious,  he  wondered  if 
his  country  had  punished  him  for  his  contempt.  There 
was  something  extraordinarily  fateful  in  the  accident 
that  had  happened  to  him.  Such  an  accident  had  never 
happened  to  anyone  before.  A  most  singular  accident ! 
He  stood  looking  through  the  studio  unable  to  go  on 
with  his  packing,  thinking  of  what  Harding  and  he  had 
been  saying  to  each  other.  The  "  Celtic  renaissance !" 
Harding  believed,  or  was  inclined  to  believe,  that  the 

26 


IN   THE  CLAY 

Gael  was  not  destined  to  disappear,  that  in  making  the 
Cross  of  Cong  he  had  not  got  as  far  as  he  was  intended 
to  get.  But  even  Harding  had  admitted  that  no  race 
had  taken  to  religion  quite  so  seriously  as  the  Celt.  The 
Druids  had  put  aside  the  oak  leaves  and  put  on  the 
biretta.  There  had  never  been  a  religious  revolution  in 
Ireland.  In  the  fifth  and  sixth  centuries  all  the  intel- 
ligence of  Ireland  had  gone  into  religion.  "  Ireland 
is  immersed  in  the  religious  vocation,  and  there  can 
be  no  renaissance  without  a  religious  revolt." 

The  door  of  the  studio  opened.  It  was  Lucy;  and 
he  wondered  what  she  had  come  back  for. 

"  It  wasn't  Father  Tom.    I  knew  it  wasn't,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  know  who  it  was  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  brothers,  Pat  and  Taigdh." 

"  Pat  and  Taigdh  broke  my  statue !  But  what  did 
they  do  that  for  ?  What  did  I  ever  do  to  them  ?" 

"  I  saw  them  whispering  together.  I  could  see  they 
had  a  secret,  something  inspired  me,  and  when  Taigdh 
went  out  I  got  Pat  by  himself  and  I  coaxed  him  and  I 
frightened  him.  I  told  him  that  things  had  been  broken 
in  your  studio,  and  that  the  police  were  making  in- 
quiries. I  saw  at  once  that  he  knew  all  about  it.  He 
got  frightened  and  he  told  me  that  last  night  when  I 
went  to  my  room  he  and  Taigdh  came  out  of  their 
room  and  had  listened  on  the  stairs.  They  did  not 
understand  everything  that  was  said,  they  only  under- 
stood that  I  had  sat  for  a  statue,  and  that  the  priest  did 
not  wish  to  put  it  up  in  his  church,  and  that  perhaps  he 
would  have  to  pay  for  it,  and  if  he  did  not  the  Bishop 
would  suspend  him — you  know  there  has  always  been 
talk  about  Father  Tom's  debts.  They  got  talking,  and 
Taigdh  said  he  would  like  to  see  the  statue,  and  he 

27 


IN   THE  CLAY 

persuaded  Pat  to  follow  him,  and  they  climbed  along 
the  wall  and  dropped  into  the  mews,  and  got  the  hasp 
off  the  door  with  the  kitchen  poker." 

"  But  why  did  they  break  the  statue  ?"  said  Rodney. 

"  I  don't  think  they  know  why  themselves.  I  tried 
to  get  Pat  to  tell  me,  but  all  he  could  tell  me  was  that 
he  had  bumped  against  a  woman  with  a  cloak  on." 

"  My  lay  figure." 

"  And  in  trying  to  get  out  of  the  studio  they  had 
knocked  down  a  bust,  and  after  they  had  done  that 
Taigdh  said :  '  We  had  better  have  down  this  one. 
The  priest  does  not  like  it,  and  if  we  have  it  down  he 
won't  have  to  pay  for  it.'  " 

"  They  must  have  heard  the  priest  saying  that  he 
did  not  want  the  statue." 

"  Very  likely  they  did,  but  I  am  sure  the  priest 
never  said  that  he  wanted  the  statue  broken." 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  great  muddle,"  said  Rodney.  "  But 
there  it  is.  My  statue  is  broken.  Two  little  boys  have 
broken  it.  Two  little  boys  who  overheard  a  priest 
talking  nonsense,  and  did  not  quite  understand.  I 
am  going  away  to-night." 

"  Then  I  shall  not  see  you  again,  .  .  .  and  you  said 
I  was  a  good  model." 

Her  meaning  was  clear  to  him.  He  remembered 
how  he  had  stood  in  the  midst  of  his  sculpture  asking 
himself  what  a  man  is  to  do  when  a  girl,  walking  with 
a  walk  at  once  idle  and  rhythmical,  stops  suddenly  and 
puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  looks  up  in  his  face. 
He  had  sworn  he  would  not  kiss  her  again  and  he  had 
broken  his  oath,  but  the  desire  of  her  as  a  model  had 
overborne  every  other  desire.  Now  he  was  going  away 
for  ever,  and  his  heart  told  him  that  she  was  as  sweet 

28 


IN   THE   CLAY 

a  thing  as  he  would  find  all  the  world  over.  But  if 
he  took  her  with  him  he  would  have  to  look  after  her 
till  the  end  of  his  life.  This  was  not  his  vocation.  His 
hesitation  endured  but  a  moment,  if  he  hesitated  at  all. 

"  You'd  like  to  go  away  with  me,  but  what  should 
I  do  with  you.  I'm  thirty-five  and  you're  sixteen." 
He  could  see  that  the  difference  of  age  did  not  strike 
her — she  was  not  looking  into  the  remote  future. 

"  I  don't  think,  Lucy,  your  destiny  is  to  watch  me 
making  statues.  Your  destiny  is  a  gayer  one  than  that. 
You  want  to  play  the  piano,  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  should  have  to  go  to  Germany  to  study,  and  I 
have  no  money.  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  must  go  back 
now.  I  just  came  to  tell  you  who  had  wrecked  your 
studio.  Good-bye.  It  has  all  been  an  unlucky  business 
for  both  of  us." 

"A  beautiful  model,"  Rodney  said  to  himself,  as 
he  watched  her  going  up  the  mews.  "  But  there  are 
other  girls  just  as  good  in  Paris  and  in  Rome."  And 
he  remembered  one  who  had  sat  to  him  in  Paris,  and 
this  gave  him  courage.  "  So  it  was  two  little  boys," 
he  said,  "  who  wrecked  my  studio.  Two  stupid  little 
boys;  two  little  boys  who  have  been  taught  their 
Catechism,  and  will  one  day  aspire  to  the  priesthood." 
And  that  it  should  be  two  stupid  little  boys  who  had 
broken  his  statue  seemed  significant.  "  Oh,  the  ignor- 
ance, the-*  crass,  the  patent  ignorance !  I  am  going. 
This  is  no  place  for  a  sculptor  to  live  in.  It  is  no 
country  for  an  educated  man.  It  won't  be  fit  for  a  man 
to  live  in  for  another  hundred  years.  It  is  an  unwashed 
country,  that  is  what  it  is !" 


29 


SOME  PARISHIONERS 


SOME    PARISHIONERS 


THE  way  before  him  was  plain  enough,  yet  his 
uncle's  apathy  and  constitutional  infirmity  of  purpose 
seemed  at  times  to  thwart  him.  Some  two  or  three 
days  ago,  he  had  come  running  down  from  Kilmore 
with  the  news  that  a  baby  had  been  born  out  of  wedlock, 
and  Father  Stafford  had  shown  no  desire  that  his 
curate  should  denounce  the  girl  from  the  altar. 

"  The  greatest  saints,"  he  said,  "  have  been  kind, 
and  have  found  excuses  for  the  sins  of  others." 

And  a  few  days  later,  when  Father  Maguire  told 
his  uncle  that  the  Salvationists  had  come  to  Kilmore, 
and  that  he  had  walked  up  the  village  street  and  slit 
their  drum  with  a  carving  knife,  his  uncle  had  not 
approved  of  his  conduct,  and  what  had  especially  an- 
noyed Father  Tom  was  that  his  uncle  seemed  to  deplore 
the  slitting  of  the  drum  in  the  same  way  as  he  de- 
plored that  the  Kavanaghs  had  a  barrel  of  porter  in 
every  Saturday,  namely,  as  one  of  those  regrettable 
excesses  to  which  human  nature  is  liable.  On  being 
pressed  he  had  agreed  with  his  nephew  that  dancing 
and  drinking  were  no  preparation  for  the  Sabbath,  but 
he  would  not  agree  that  evil  could  be  suppressed  by 
force.  He  had  even  hinted  that  too  strict  a  rule  brought 
about  a  revolt  against  the  rule,  and  when  Father  Tom 
had  expressed  his  disbelief  at  any  revolt  against  the 
authority  of  the  priest,  Father  Stafford  said : — 

"  They  may  just  leave  you,  they  may  just  go  to 
America." 

3  33 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  Then  you  think  that  it  is  our  condemnation  of  sin 
that  is  driving  the  people  to  America." 

"  My  dear  Tom,  you  told  me  the  other  day  that 
you  met  a  lad  and  a  lass  walking  along  the  roadside, 
and  that  you  drove  them  home.  You  told  me  you 
were  sure  they  were  talking  about  things  they  should 
not  talk  about;  you  have  no  right  to  assume  these 
things.  You're  asking  of  the  people  an  abstinence 
you  don't  practice  yourself.  Sometimes  your  friends 
are  women." 

"Yes.    But " 

Father  Tom's  anger  prevented  him  from  finding  an 
adequate  argument.  Father  Stafford  pushed  the  to- 
bacco bowl  towards  his  nephew. 

"  You're  not  smoking,  Tom." 

"  Your  point  is  that  a  certain  amount  of  vice  is 
inherent  in  human  nature,  and  that  if  we  raise  the 
standard  of  virtuous  living  our  people  will  escape  from 
us  to  New  York  or  London." 

"  The  sexes  mix  freely  everywhere  in  western 
Europe;  only  in  Ireland  and  Turkey  is  there  any 
attempt  made  to  separate  them." 

Later  in  the  evening  Father  Tom  insisted  that  the 
measure  of  responsibility  was  always  the  same. 

"  I  should  be  sorry,"  said  his  uncle,  "  to  say  that 
those  who  inherit  drunkenness  bear  the  same  burden 
of  responsibility  as  those  who  come  of  parents  who 
are  quite  sane " 

"  You  cannot  deny,  uncle  John,  that  free  will  and 
predestination " 

"  My  dear  Tom,  I  really  must  go  to  bed.  It  is  after 
midnight." 

As  he  walked  home,  Father  Maguire  thought  of 
34 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

the  great  change  he  perceived  in  his  uncle.  Father 
Stafford  liked  to  go  to  bed  at  eleven,  the  very  name 
of  St.  Thomas  seemed  to  bore  him;  fifteen  years  ago 
he  would  sit  up  till  morning.  Father  Maguire  remem- 
bered the  theological  debates,  sometimes  prolonged  till 
after  three  o'clock,  and  the  passionate  scholiast  of  May- 
nooth  seemed  to  him  unrecognisable  in  the  esurient 
Vicar-General,  only  occasionally  interested  in  theology, 
at  certain  hours  and  when  he  felt  particularly  well.  He 
could  not  reconcile  the  two  ages,  his  mind  not  being 
sufficiently  acute  to  see  that  after  all  no  one  can  discuss 
theology  for  more  than  five-and-twenty  years  without 
wearying  of  the  subject. 

The  moon  was  shining  among  the  hills  and  the  mys- 
tery of  the  landscape  seemed  to  aggravate  his  sensi- 
bility, and  he  asked  himself  if  the  guardians  of  the 
people  should  not  fling  themselves  into  the  forefront 
of  the  battle.  Men  came  to  preach  heresy  in  his  parish 
— was  he  not  justified  in  slitting  their  drum? 

He  had  recourse  to  prayer,  and  he  prayed  for 
strength  and  for  guidance.  He  had  accepted  the 
Church,  and  in  the  Church  he  saw  only  apathy,  neglect, 
and  bad  administration  on  the  part  of  his  superiors.  .  .  . 
He  had  read  that  great  virtues  are,  like  large  sums  of 
money,  deposited  in  the  bank,  whereas  humility  is  like 
the  pence,  always  at  hand,  always  current.  Obedience 
to  our  superiors  is  the  sure  path.  He  could  not  per- 
suade himself  that  it  was  right  for  him  to  allow  the 
Kavanaghs  to  continue  a  dissolute  life  of  drinking  and 
dancing.  They  were  the  talk  of  the  parish;  and  he 
would  have  spoken  against  them  from  the  altar,  but  his 
uncle  had  advised  him  not  to  do  so.  Perhaps  his 
uncle  was  right;  he  might  be  right  regarding  the 

35 


SOME  PARISHIONERS 

Kavanaghs.  In  the  main  he  disagreed  with  his  uncle, 
but  in  this  particular  instance  it  might  be  well  to  wait 
and  pray  that  matters  might  improve. 

Father  Tom  believed  Ned  Kavanagh  to  be  a  good 
boy.  Ned  was  going  to  marry  Mary  Byrne,  and  Father 
Tom  had  made  up  this  marriage.  The  Byrnes  did 
not  care  for  the  marriage — they  were  prejudiced  against 
Ned  on  account  of  his  family.  But  he  was  not  going  to 
allow  them  to  break  off  the  marriage.  He  was  sure  of 
Ned,  but  in  order  to  make  quite  sure  he  would  get 
him  to  take  the  pledge.  Next  morning  when  the 
priest  had  done  his  breakfast,  and  was  about  to  un- 
fold hisAiewspaper,  his  servant  opened  the  door,  and 
told  him  that  Ned  Kavanagh  was  outside  and  wanted 
to  see  him. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  this  nice,  clean  boy, 
with  his  winning  smile,  and  the  priest  thought  that 
Mary  could  not  wish  for  a  better  husband.  Ned's 
smile  seemed  a  little  fainter  than  usual,  and  his  face 
was  paler;  the  priest  wondered,  and  presently  Ned 
told  the  priest  that  he  had  come  to  confession,  and 
going  down  on  his  knees,  he  told  the  priest  that  he 
had  been  drunk  last  Saturday  night,  and  that  he  had 
come  to  take  the  pledge.  He  would  never  do  any 
good  while  he  was  at  home,  and  one  of  the  reasons  he 
gave  for  wishing  to  marry  Mary  Byrne  was  his  desire 
to  leave  home.  The  priest  asked  him  if  matters  were 
mending,  and  if  his  sister  showed  any  signs  of  wishing 
to  be  married. 

"  Sorra  sign,"  said  Ned. 

"  That's  bad  news  you're  bringing  me,"  said  the 
priest,  and  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  and  they 
talked  over  Kate's  wilful  character. 

36 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  From  the  beginning  she  did  not  like  living  at 
home,"  said  the  priest. 

"  I  don't  care  about  living  at  home,"  said  Ned. 

"  But  for  a  different  reason,"  remarked  the  priest. 
"  You  want  to  leave  home  to  get  married,  and  have 
a  wife  and  children,  if  God  is  pleased  to  give  you 
children." 

Kate  had  been  in  numerous  services,  and  the  priest 
sat  thinking  of  the  stories  he  had  heard.  He  had 
heard  that  Kate  had  come  back  from  her  last  situation 
in  a  cab,  wrapped  up  in  blankets,  saying  she  was  ill. 
On  inquiry  it  was  found  that  she  had  only  been  three 
or  four  days  in  her  situation ;  three  weeks  had  to  be 
accounted  for.  He  had  questioned  her  himself  regard- 
ing this  interval,  but  had  not  been  able  to  get  any  clear 
and  definite  answer  from  her. 

"  She  and  mother  never  stop  quarrelling  about  Pat 
Connex." 

"  It  appears,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  your  mother 
went  out  with  a  jug  of  porter  under  her  apron,  and 
offered  a  sup  of  it  to  Pat  Connex,  who  was  talking 
with  Peter  M'Shane,  and  now  he  is  up  at  your  cabin 
every  Saturday." 

"  That's  it,"  said  Ned. 

"  Mrs.  Connex  was  here  the  other  day,  and  I  can 
tell  you  that  if  Pat  marries  your  sister  he  will  find 
himself  cut  off  with  a  shilling." 

"  She's  been  agin  us  all  the  while,"  said  Ned.  "  Her 
money  has  made  her  proud,  but  I  don't  blame  her. 
If  I  had  the  fine  house  she  has,  maybe  I  would  be  as 
proud  as  she." 

"  Maybe  you  would,"  said  the  priest.  "  But  what 
I  am  thinking  of  is  your  sister  Kate.  She  will 

37 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

never  get  Pat  Connex.     Pat  will  never  go  against  his 
mother." 

"  Well,  you  see  he  comes  up  and  plays  the  melodion 
on  Saturday  night,"  said  Ned,  "  and  she  can't  stop  him 
from  doing  that." 

"  Then  you  think,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  Pat  will 
marry  your  sister  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  she  wants  to  marry  him." 

"  If  she  doesn't  want  to  marry  him,  what's  all  this 
talk  about?" 

"  She  likes  to  meet  Pat  in  the  evenings  and  go  for 
a  walk  with  him,  and  she  likes  him  to  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist  and  kiss  her,  saving  your  reverence's 
pardon." 

"  It  is  strange  that  you  should  be  so  unlike.  You 
come  here  and  ask  me  to  speak  to  Mary  Byrne's  parents 
for  you,  and  that  I'll  do,  Ned,  and  it  will  be  all  right. 
You  will  make  a  good  husband,  and  though  you  were 
drunk  last  night,  you  have  taken  the  pledge  to-day, 
and  I  will  make  a  good  marriage  for  Kate,  too,  if  she'll 
listen  to  me." 

"  And  who  may  your  reverence  be  thinking  of  ?" 

"  I'm  thinking  of  Peter  M'Shane.  He  gets  as  much 
as  six  shillings  a  week  and  his  keep  on  Murphy's  farm, 
and  his  mother  has  got  a  bit  of  money,  and  they  have 
a  nice,  clean  cabin.  Now  listen  to  me.  There  is  a  poul- 
try lecture  at  the  school-house  to-night.  Do  you  think 
you  could  bring  your  sister  with  you?" 

"  We  used  to  keep  a  great  many  hens  at  home,  and 
Kate  had  the  feeding  of  them,  and  now  she's  turned 
agin  them,  and  she  wants  to  live  in  town,  and  she 
even  tells  Pat  Connex  she  would  not  marry  a  farmer, 
however  much  he  was  worth." 

38 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  But  if  you  tell  her  that  Pat  Connex  will  be  at  the 

lecture  will  she  come?" 

"  Yes,  your  reverence,  if  she  believes  me." 

"  Then  do  as  I  bid  you,"  said  the  priest ;   "  you  can 

tell  her  that  Pat  Connex  will  be  there." 


II 

AFTER  leaving  the  priest  Ned  crossed  over  the  road 
to  avoid  the  public-house.  He  went  for  a  walk  on  the 
hills,  and  it  was  about  five  when  he  turned  towards 
the  village.  On  his  way  there  he  met  his  father,  and 
Ned  told  him  that  he  had  been  to  see  the  priest,  and 
that  he  was  going  to  take  Mary  to  the  lecture. 

Michael  Kavanagh  wished  his  son  God-speed.  He 
was  very  tired;  and  he  thought  it  was  pretty  hard 
to  come  home  after  a  long  day's  work  to  find  his  wife 
and  daughter  quarrelling. 

"  I  am  sorry  your  dinner  is  not  ready,  father,  but 
it  won't  be  long  now.  I'll  cut  the  bacon." 

"  I  met  Ned  on  the  road,"  said  her  father.  "  He 
has  gone  to  fetch  Mary.  He  is  going  to  take  her  to  the 
lecture  on  poultry-keeping  at  the  school-house." 

"  Ah,  he  has  been  to  the  priest,  has  he  ?"  said  Kate, 
and  her  mother  asked  her  why  she  said  that,  and  the 
wrangle  began  again. 

Ned  was  the  peacemaker ;  there  was  generally  quiet 
in  the  cabin  when  he  was  there.  He  came  in  with 
Mary,  a  small,  fair  girl,  and  a  good  girl,  who  would 
keep  his  cabin  tidy.  His  mother  and  sisters  were 
broad-shouldered  women  with  blue-black  hair  and  red 

39 


SOJVlE   PARISHIONERS 

cheeks,  and  it  was  said  that  he  had  said  he  would  like 
to  bring  a  little  fair  hair  into  the  family. 

"  We've  just  come  in  for  a  minute,"  said  Mary. 
"  Ned  said  that  perhaps  you'd  be  coming  with  us." 

"  All  the  boys  in  the  village  will  be  there  to-night," 
said  Ned.  "  You  had  better  come  with  us."  And 
pretending  he  wanted  to  get  a  coal  of  fire  to  light  his 
pipe,  Ned  whispered  to  Kate  as  he  passed  her,  "  Pat 
Connex  will  be  there." 

She  looked  at  the  striped  sunshade  she  has  brought 
back  from  the  dressmaker's — she  had  once  been  ap- 
prenticed to  a  dressmaker — but  Ned  said  that  a  storm 
was  blowing  and  she  had  better  leave  the  sunshade 
behind. 

The  rain  beat  in  their  faces  and  the  wind  came 
sweeping  down  the  mountain  and  made  them  stagger. 
Sometimes  the  road  went  straight  on,  sometimes  it 
turned  suddenly  and  went  up-hill.  After  walking  for 
a  mile  they  came  to  the  school-house.  A  number  of 
men  were  waiting  outside,  and  one  of  the  boys  told 
them  that  the  priest  had  said  they  were  to  keep  a  look 
out  for  the  lecturer,  and  Ned  said  that  he  had  better 
stay  with  them,  that  his  lantern  would  be  useful  to 
show  her  the  way.  They  went  into  a  long,  smoky  room. 
The  women  had  collected  into  one  corner,  and  the  priest 
was  walking  up  and  down,  his  hands  thrust  into  the 
pockets  of  his  overcoat.  Now  he  stopped  in  his  walk 
to  scold  two  children  who  were  trying  to  light  a  peat 
fire  in  a  tumbled  down  grate. 

"  Don't  be  tired,  go  on  blowing,"  he  said.  "  You 
are  the  laziest  child  I  have  seen  this  long  while." 

Ned  came  in  and  blew  out  his  lantern,  but  the  lady 
he  had  mistaken  for  the  lecturer  was  a  lady  who  had 

40 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

come  to  live  in  the  neighbourhood  lately,  and  the 
priest  said: — 

"  You  must  be  very  much  interested  in  poultry, 
ma'am,  to  come  out  on  such  a  night  as  this." 

The  lady  stood  shaking  her  waterproof. 

"  Now,  then,  Lizzie,  run  to  your  mother  and  get 
the  lady  a  chair." 

And  when  the  child  came  back  with  the  chair,  and 
the  lady  was  seated  by  the  fire,  he  said: — 

"  I'm  thinking  there  will  be  no  lecturer  here  to- 
night, and  that  it  would  be  kind  of  you  if  you  were  to 
give  the  lecture  yourself.  You  have  read  some  books 
about  poultry,  I  am  sure  ?" 

"  Well,  a  little— but " 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  priest.  "I'm 
sure  the  book  you  have  read  is  full  of  instruction." 

He  walked  up  the  room  towards  a  group  of  men 
and  told  them  they  must  cease  talking,  and  coming 
back  to  the  young  woman,  he  said : — 

"  We  shall  be  much  obliged  if  you  will  say  a  few 
words  about  poultry.  Just  say  what  you  have  in  your 
mind  about  the  different  breeds." 

The  young  woman  again  protested,  but  the  priest 
said : — 

"  You  will  do  it  very  nicely."  And  he  spoke  like 
one  who  is  not  accustomed  to  being  disobeyed.  "  We 
will  give  the  lecturer  five  minutes  more." 

"  Is  there  no  farmer's  wife  who  could  speak,"  the 
young  lady  said  in  a  fluttering  voice.  "  She  would 
know  much  more  than  I.  I  see  Biddy  M'Hale  there. 
She  has  done  very  well  with  her  poultry." 

"  I  daresay  she  has,"  said  the  priest,  "  but  the  people 
would  pay  no  attention  to  her.  She  is  one  of  them- 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

selves.     It  would  be  no  amusement  to  them  to  hear 
her." 

The  young  lady  asked  if  she  might  have  five  minutes 
to  scribble  a  few  notes.  The  priest  said  he  would  wait 
a  few  minutes,  but  it  did  not  matter  much  what  she 
said. 

"  But  couldn't  some  one  dance  or  sing,"  said  the 
young  lady. 

"  Dancing  and  singing !"  said  the  priest.     "  No !" 

And  the  young  lady  hurriedly  scribbled  a  few  notes 
about  fowls  for  laying,  fowls  for  fattening,  regular 
feeding,  warm  houses,  and  something  about  a  percent- 
age of  mineral  matter.  She  had  not  half  finished  when 
the  priest  said : — 

"  Now  will  you  stand  over  there  near  the  harmonium. 
Whom  shall  I  announce?" 

The  young  woman  told  him  her  name,  and  he  led 
her  to  the  harmonium  and  left  her  talking,  addressing 
most  of  her  instruction  to  Biddy  M'Hale,  a  long,  thin, 
pale-faced  woman,  with  wistful  eyes. 

"  This  won't  do,"  said  the  priest,  interrupting  the 
lecturer, — "  I'm  not  speaking  to  you,  miss,  but  to  my 
people.  I  don't  see  one  of  you  taking  notes,  not  even 
you,  Biddy  M'Hale,  though  you  have  made  a  fortune 
out  of  your  hins.  Didn't  I  tell  you  from  the  pulpit  thar 
you  were  to  bring  pencil  and  paper  and  write  down 
all  you  heard.  If  you  had  known  years  ago  all  this 
young  lady  is  going  to  tell  you  you  would  be  rolling 
in  your  carriages  to-day." 

Then  the  priest  asked  the  lecturer  to  go  on,  and 
the  lady  explained  that  to  get  hens  to  lay  about  Christ- 
mas time,  when  eggs  fetched  the  best  price,  you  must 
bring  on  your  pullets  early. 

42 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

,"  You  must,"  she  said,  "  set  your  eggs  in  January." 

"  You  hear  that,"  said  the  priest.  "  Is  there  anyone 
who  has  got  anything  to  say  about  that?  Why  is  it 
that  you  don't  set  your  eggs  in  January  ?" 

No  one  answered,  and  the  lecturer  went  on  to  tell 
of  the  advantages  that  would  come  to  the  poultry- 
keeper  whose  eggs  were  hatched  in  December. 

As  she  said  this,  the  priest's  eyes  fell  upon  Biddy 
M'Hale,  and,  seeing  that  she  was  smiling,  he  asked 
her  if  there  was  any  reason  why  eggs  could  not  be 
hatched  in  the  beginning  of  January. 

"  Now,  Biddy,  you  must  know  all  about  this,  and  I 
insist  on  your  telling  us.  We  are  here  to  learn." 

Biddy  did  not  answer. 

"  Then  what  were  you  smiling  at  ?" 

"  I  wasn't  smiling,  your  reverence." 

"  Yes ;  I  saw  you  smiling.  Is  it  because  you  think 
there  isn't  a  brooding  hin  in  January?" 

It  had  not  occurred  to  the  lecturer  that  hens  might 
not  be  brooding  so  early  in  the  year,  and  she  waited 
anxiously.  At  last  Biddy  said: — 

"  Well,  your  reverence,  it  isn't  because  there  are  no 
hins  brooding.  You'll  get  brooding  hins  at  every  time 
in  the  year ;  but,  you  see,  you  can't  rear  chickens  earlier 
than  March.  The  end  of  February  is  the  earliest  I 
have  ever  seen.  But,  of  course,  if  you  could  rear  them 
in  January,  all  that  the  young  lady  said  would  be  quite 
right.  I  have  nothing  to  say  agin  it.  I  have  no  fault 
to  find  with  anything  she  says,  your  reverence." 

"  Only  that  it  can't  be  done,"  said  the  priest.  "  Well, 
you  ought  to  know,  Biddy." 

The  villagers  were  laughing. 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  priest.  "I  don't  mind 
43 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

your  having  a  bit  of  amusement,  but  you're  here  to 
learn." 

And  as  he  looked  round  the  room,  quieting  the  vil- 
lagers into  silence,  his  eyes  fell  on  Kate.  "  That's  all 
right,"  he  thought,  and  he  looked  for  the  others,  and 
spied  Pat  Connex  and  Peter  M'Shane  near  the  door. 
"  They're  here,  too,"  he  thought.  "  When  the  lecture 
is  over  I  will  see  them  and  bring  them  all  together. 
Kate  Kavanagh  won't  go  home  until  she  promises  to 
marry  Peter.  I  have  had  enough  of  her  goings  on  in 
my  parish." 

But  Kate  had  caught  sight  of  Peter.  She  would  get 
no  walk  home  with  Pat  that  night,  and  she  suspected 
her  brother  of  having  done  this  for  a  purpose.  She  got 
up  to  go. 

"  I  don't  want  anyone  to  leave  this  room,"  said  the 
priest.  "  Kate  Kavanagh,  why  are  you  going  ?  Sit 
down  till  the  lecture  is  over." 

And  as  Kate  had  not  strength  to  defy  the  priest  she 
sat  down,  and  the  lecturer  continued  for  a  little  while 
longer.  The  priest  could  see  that  the  lecturer  had  said 
nearly  all  she  had  to  say,  and  he  had  begun  to  wonder 
how  the  evening's  amusement  was  to  be  prolonged.  It 
would  not  do  to  let  the  people  go  home  until  Michael 
Dunne  had  closed  his  public-house,  and  the  priest 
looked  round  the  audience  thinking  which  one  he  might 
call  upon  to  say  a  few  words  on  the  subject  of  poultry- 
keeping. 

From  one  of  the  back  rows  a  voice  was  heard: — 

"  What  about  the  pump,  your  reverence  ?" 

"  Well,  indeed,  you  may  ask,"  said  the  priest. 

And  immediately  he  began  to  speak  of  the  wrong 
they  had  suffered  by  not  having  a  pump  in  the  village. 

44 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

The  fact  that  Almighty  God  had  endowed  Kilmore 
with  a  hundred  mountain  streams  did  not  release  the 
authorities  from  the  obligation  of  supplying  the  village 
with  a  pump.  Had  not  the  authorities  put  up  one  in 
the  neighbouring  village? 

"  You  should  come  out,"  he  said,  "  and  fight  for  your 
rights.  You  should  take  off  your  coats  like  men,  and  if 
you  do  I'll  see  that  you  get  your  rights,"  and  he  looked 
round  for  someone  to  speak. 

There  was  a  landlord  among  the  audience,  and  as 
he  was  a  Catholic  the  priest  called  upon  him  to  speak. 
He  said  that  he  agreed  with  the  priest  in  the  main. 
They  should  have  their  pump,  if  they  wanted  a  pump ; 
if  they  didn't,  he  would  suggest  that  they  asked  for 
something  else.  Farmer  Byrne  said  he  did  not  want  a 
pump,  and  then  everyone  spoke  his  mind,  and  things 
got  mixed.  The  Catholic  landlord  regretted  that 
Father  Maguire  was  against  allowing  a  poultry-yard  to 
the  patients  in  the  lunatic  asylum.  If,  instead  of  sup- 
plying a  pump,  the  Government  would  sell  them  eggs 
for  hatching  at  a  low  price,  something  might  be  gained. 
If  the  Government  would  not  do  this,  the  Government 
might  be  induced  to  supply  books  on  poultry  free  of 
charge.  It  took  the  Catholic  landlord  half  an  hour  to 
express  his  ideas  regarding  the  asylum,  the  pump,  and 
the  duties  of  the  Government,  and  in  this  way  the  priest 
succeeded  in  delaying  the  departure  of  the  audience 
till  after  closing  time.  "  However  fast  they  walk," 
he  said  to  himself,  "  they  won't  get  to  Michael  Dunne's 
public-house  in  ten  minutes,  and  he  will  be  shut  by 
then."  It  devolved  upon  him  to  bring  the  evening's 
amusement  to  a  close  with  a  few  remarks,  and  he 
said : — 

45 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  Now,  the  last  words  I  have  to  say  to  you  I'll 
address  to  the  women.  Now  listen  to  me.  If  you 
pay  more  attention  to  your  poultry  you'll  never  be  short 
of  half  a  sovereign  to  lend  your  husbands,  your  sons, 
or  your  brothers." 

These  last  words  produced  an  approving  shuffling 
of  feet  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  seeing  that 
nothing  more  was  going  to  happen,  the  villagers  got 
up  and  they  went  out  very  slowly,  the  women  curt- 
seying and  the  men  lifting  their  caps  to  the  priest  as 
they  passed  him. 

He  had  signed  to  Ned  and  Mary  tKat  he  wished  to 
speak  to  them,  and  after  he  had  spoken  to  Ned  he 
called  Kate  and  reminded  her  that  he  had  not  seen  her 
at  confession  lately. 

"  Pat  Connex  and  Peter  M'Shane,  now  don't  you 
be  going.  I  will  have  a  word  with  you  presently." 

And  while  Kate  tried  to  find  an  excuse  to  account  for 
her  absence  from  confession,  the  priest  called  to  Ned 
and  Mary,  who  were  talking  at  a  little  distance.  He 
told  them  he  would  be  waiting  for  them  in  church  to- 
morrow, and  he  said  he  had  never  made  a  marriage  that 
gave  him  more  pleasure.  He  alluded  to  the  fact  that 
they  had  come  to  him.  He  was  responsible  for  this 
match,  and  he  accepted  the  responsibility  gladly.  His 
uncle,  the  Vicar-General,  had  delegated  all  the  work  of 
the  parish  to  him. 

"  Father  Stafford,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  will  be  very 
glad  to  hear  of  your  marriage,  Kate  Kavanagh." 

"  My  marriage,"  said  Kate.  ..."  I  don't  think 
I  shall  ever  be  married." 

"  Now,  why  do  you  say  that  ?"  said  the  priest. 

Kate  did  not  know  why  she  had  said  that  she  would 
46 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

never  be  married.     However,  she  had  to  give  some 
reason,  and  she  said : — 

"  I  don't  think,  your  reverence,  anyone  would  have 
me." 

"  You  are  not  speaking  your  mind,"  said  the  priest, 
a  little  sternly.  "  It  is  said  that  you  don't  want  to  be 
married,  that  you  like  courting  better." 

"  I'd  like  to  be  married  well  enough,"  said  Kate. 

"  Those  who  wish  to  make  safe,  reliable  marriages 
consult  their  parents  and  they  consult  the  priest.  I 
have  made  your  brother's  marriage  for  him.  Why 
don't  you  come  to  me  and  ask  me  to  make  up  a  mar- 
riage for  you  ?" 

"  I  think  a  girl  should  make  her  own  marriage,  your 
reverence." 

"  And  what  way  do  you  go  about  making  up  a 
marriage?  Walking  about  the  roads  in  the  evening, 
and  going  into  public-houses,  and  leaving  your  situa- 
tions. It  seems  to  me,  Kate  Kavanagh,  you  have  been 
a  long  time  making  up  this  marriage." 

"  Now,  Pat  Connex,  I've  got  a  word  with  you. 
You're  a  good  boy,  and  I  know  you  don't  mean  any 
harm  by  it;  but  I  have  been  hearing  tales  about  you. 
You've  been  up  to  Dublin  with  Kate  Kavanagh.  Your 
mother  came  up  to  speak  to  me  about  this  matter 
yesterday,  and  she  said :  '  Not  a  penny  of  my  money 
will  he  ever  get  if  he  marries  her,'  meaning  the  girl 
before  you.  Your  mother  said :  '  I've  got  nothing  to 
say  against  her,  but  I've  got  a  right  to  choose  my  own 
daughter-in-law.'  These  are  your  mother's  very  words, 
Pat,  so  you  had  better  listen  to  reason.  Do  you  hear 
me,  Kate?" 

"  I  hear  your  reverence." 
47 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  And  if  you  hear  me,  what  have  you  got  to  say  to 
that?" 

"  He's  free  to  go  after  the  girl  he  chooses,  your 
reverence,"  said  Kate. 

"  There's  been  courting  enough,"  the  priest  said. 
"  If  you  aren't  going  to  be  married  you  must  give  up 
keeping  company.  I  see  Paddy  Boyle  outside  the 
door.  Go  home  with  him.  Do  you  hear  what  I'm 
saying,  Pat  ?  Go  straight  home,  and  no  stopping  about 
the  roads.  Just  do  as  I  bid  you ;  go  straight  home  to 
your  mother." 

Pat  did  not  move  at  the  bidding  of  the  priest.  He 
stood  watching  Kate  as  if  he  were  waiting  for  a  sign 
from  her,  but  Kate  did  not  look  at  him. 

"  Do  you  hear  what  I'm  saying  to  you  ?"  said  the 
priest. 

"  Yes,  I  hear,"  said  Pat. 

"  And  aren't  you  going  ?"  said  the  priest. 

Everyone  was  afraid  Pat  would  raise  his  hand 
against  the  priest,  and  they  looked  such  strong  men, 
both  of  them,  that  everyone  wondered  which  would 
get  the  better  of  the  other. 

"  You  won't  go  home  when  I  tell  you  to  do  so.  We 
will  see  if  I  can't  put  you  out  of  the  door  then." 

"  If  you  weren't  a  priest,"  said  Pat,  "  the  devil  a 
bit  of  you  would  put  me  out  of  the  door." 

"  If  I  weren't  a  priest  I  would  break  every  bone  in 
your  body  for  talking  to  me  like  that.  Now  out  you 
go,"  he  said,  taking  him  by  the  collar,  and  he  put  him 
out. 

"  And  now,  Kate  Kavanagh,"  said  the  priest,  coming 
back  from  the  door,  "  you  said  you  didn't  marry  be- 
cause no  man  would  have  you.  Peter  has  been  wait- 

48 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

ing  for  you  ever  since  you  were  a  girl  of  sixteen  years 
old,  and  I  may  say  it  for  him,  since  he  doesn't  say 
much  himself,  that  you  have  nearly  broken  his  heart." 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  meant  it.    I  like  Peter." 

"  You  acted  out  of  recklessness  without  knowing 
what  you  were  doing." 

A  continual  smile  floated  round  Peter's  moustache, 
and  he  looked  like  a  man  to  whom  rebuffs  made  no 
difference.  His  eyes  were  patient  and  docile;  and 
whether  it  was  the  presence  of  this  great  and  true 
love  by  her  side,  or  whether  it  was  the  presence  of 
the  priest,  Kate  did  not  know,  but  a  great  change 
came  over  her,  and  she  said : — 

"  I  know  that  Peter  has  been  very  good,  that  he  has 
cared  for  me  this  long  while.  ...  If  he  wishes  to 
make  me  his  wife " 

When  Kate  gave  him  her  hand  there  was  a  mist  in 
his  eyes,  and  he  stood  trembling  before  her. 


Ill 

NEXT  morning,  as  Father  Maguire  was  leaving  the 
house,  his  servant  handed  him  a  letter.  It  was  from 
an  architect  who  had  been  down  to  examine  the  walls 
of  the  church.  The  envelope  that  Father  Maguire  was 
tearing  open  contained  his  report,  and  Father  Maguire 
read  that  it  would  require  two  hundred  pounds  to  make 
the  walls  secure.  Father  Maguire  was  going  round  to 
the  church  to  marry  Mary  Byrne  and  Ned  Kavanagh, 
and  he  continued  to  read  the  report  until  he  arrived  at 
the  church.  The  wedding  party  was  waiting,  but  the 
architect's  report  was  much  more  important  than  a 
4  49 


SOME  PARISHIONERS 

wedding,  and  he  wandered  round  the  old  walls  exam- 
ining the  cracks  as  he  went.  He  could  see  they  were 
crumbling,  and  he  believed  the  architect  was  right, 
and  that  it  would  be  better  to  build  a  new  church.  But 
to  build  a  new  church  three  or  four  thousand  pounds 
would  be  required,  and  the  architect  might  as  well  sug- 
gest that  he  should  collect  three  or  four  millions. 

And  Ned  and  Mary  noticed  the  dark  look  between 
the  priest's  eyes  as  he  came  out  of  the  sacristy,  and 
Ned  regretted  that  his  reverence  should  be  out  of  his 
humour  that  morning,  for  he  had  spent  three  out  of 
the  five  pounds  he  had  saved  to  pay  the  priest  for 
marrying  him.  He  had  cherished  hopes  that  the  priest 
would  understand  that  he  had  had  to  buy  some  new 
clothes,  but  the  priest  looked  so  cross  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  he  summoned  courage  to  tell  him  that  he  had 
only  two  pounds  left. 

"  I  want  two  hundred  pounds  to  make  the  walls  of 
the  church  safe.  Where  is  the  money  to  come  from? 
All  the  money  in  Kilmore  goes  into  drink,"  he  added 
bitterly,  "  into  blue  trousers.  No,  I  won't  marry  you 
for  two  pounds.  I  won't  marry  you  for  less  than  five. 
I  will  marry  you  for  nothing  or  I  will  marry  you  for 
five  pounds,"  he  added,  and  Ned  looked  round  the  wed- 
ding guests ;  he  knew  that  none  had  five  shillings  in 
his  pocket,  and  he  did  not  dare  to  take  the  priest  at  his 
word  and  let  him  marry  him  for  nothing. 

Father  Maguire  felt  that  his  temper  had  got  the 
better  of  him,  but  it  was  too  late  to  go  back  on  what 
he  said.  Marry  them  for  two  pounds  with  the  archi- 
tect's letter  in  the  pocket  of  his  cassock!  And  if  he 
were  to  accept  two  pounds,  who  would  pay  five  to  be 
married?  If  he  did  not  stand  out  for  his  dues  the 

50 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

marriage  fee  would  be  reduced  from  five  pounds  to  one 
pound.  .  .  .  And  if  he  accepted  Ned's  two  pounds  his 
authority  would  be  weakened ;  he  would  not  be  able  to 
get  them  to  subscribe  to  have  the  church  made  safe. 
On  the  whole  he  thought  he  had  done  right,  and  his 
servant  was  of  the  same  opinion. 

"  They'd  have  the  cassock  off  your  back,  your  rever- 
ence, if  they  could  get  it." 

"  And  the  architect  writing  to  me  that  the  walls 
can't  be  made  safe  under  two  hundred  pounds,  and  the 
whole  lot  of  them  not  earning  less  than  thirty  shillings 
a  week,  and  they  can't  pay  the  priest  five  pounds  for 
marrying  them." 

In  the  course  of  the  day  he  went  to  Dublin  to  see 
the  architect;  and  next  morning  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  might  have  to  go  to  America  to  get  the  money 
to  build  a  new  church,  and  as  he  sat  thinking  the  door 
was  opened  and  the  servant  said  that  Biddy  M'Hale 
wanted  to  see  his  reverence. 

She  came  in  curtseying,  and  before  saying  a  word 
she  took  ten  sovereigns  out  of  her  pocket  and  put 
them  upon  the  table.  The  priest  thought  she  had 
heard  of  the  architect's  report,  and  he  said : — 

"  Now,  Biddy,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  suppose 
you  have  brought  me  this  for  my  church.  You  have 
heard  of  the  money  it  will  cost  to  make  the  walls 
safe." 

"  No,  your  reverence,  I  did  not  hear  any  more  than 
that  there  were  cracks  in  the  walls." 

"  But  you  have  brought  me  this  money  to  have  the 
cracks  mended?" 

"  Well,  no,  your  reverence.  I  have  been  thinking 
a  long  time  of  doing  something  for  the  church,  and  I 

Si 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

thought  I  should  like  to  have  a  window  put  up  in  the 
church  with  coloured  glass  in  it." 

Father  Maguire  was  touched  by  Biddy's  desire  to 
do  something  for  the  church,  and  he  thought  he  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  persuading  her.  He  could  get 
this  money  for  the  repairs,  and  he  told  her  that  her 
name  would  be  put  on  the  top  of  the  subscription  list. 

"  A  subscription  from  Miss  M'Hale — £  10.  A  sub- 
scription from  Miss  M'Hale." 

Biddy  did  not  answer,  and  the  priest  could  see  that 
it  would  give  her  no  pleasure  whatever  to  subscribe 
to  mending  the  walls  of  his  church,  and  it  annoyed 
him  to  see  her  sitting  in  his  own  chair  stretching  out 
her  hands  to  take  the  money  back.  He  could  see  that 
her  wish  to  benefit  the  church  was  merely  a  pretext 
for  the  glorification  of  herself,  and  the  priest  began  to 
argue  with  the  old  woman.  But  he  might  have  spared 
himself  the  trouble  of  explaining  that  it  was  necessary 
to  have  a  new  church  before  you  could  have  a  window. 
She  understood  well  enough  it  was  useless  to  put  a 
window  up  in  a  church  that  was  going  to  fall  down. 
But  her  idea  still  was  St.  Joseph  in  a  red  cloak  and  the 
Virgin  in  blue  with  a  crown  of  gold  on  her  head,  and 
forgetful  of  everything  else,  she  asked  him  whether 
her  window  in  the  new  church  should  be  put  over  the 
high  altar,  or  if  it  should  be  a  window  lighting  a  side 
altar. 

"  But,  my  good  woman,  ten  pounds  will  not  pay  for 
a  window.  You  couldn't  get  anything  to  speak  of  in 
the  way  of  a  window  for  less  than  fifty  pounds." 

He  had  expected  to  astonish  Biddy,  but  she  did  not 
seem  astonished.  She  said  that  although  fifty  pounds 
was  a  great  deal  of  money  she  would  not  mind  spend- 

52 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

ing  all  that  money  if  she  were  to  have  her  window  all 
to  herself.  She  had  thought  at  first  of  only  putting  in 
part  of  the  window,  a  round  piece  at  the  top  of  the 
window,  and  she  had  thought  that  that  could  be 
bought  for  ten  pounds.  The  priest  could  see  that  she 
had  been  thinking  a  good  deal  of  this  window,  and 
she  seemed  to  know  more  about  it  than  he  expected. 
•'  It  is  extraordinary,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  how  a 
desire  of  immortality  persecutes  these  second-class 
souls.  A  desire  of  temporal  immortality,"  he  said, 
fearing  he  had  been  guilty  of  a  heresy. 

"  If  I  could  have  the  whole  window  to  myself,  I 
would  give  you  fifty  pounds,  your  reverence." 

The  priest  had  no  idea  she  had  saved  as  much  money 
as  that. 

"  The  hins  have  been  very  good  to  me,  your  rever- 
ence, and  I  would  like  to  put  up  the  window  in  the 
new  church  better  than  in  the  old  church." 

"  But  I've  got  no  money,  my  good  woman,  to  build 
the  church." 

"  Ah,  won't  your  reverence  go  to  America  and  get 
the  money.  Aren't  our  own  kith  and  kin  over  there, 
and  aren't  they  always  willing  to  give  us  money  for 
our  churches." 

The  priest  spoke  to  her  about  statues,  and  suggested 
that  perhaps  a  statue  would  be  a  more  permanent  gift, 
but  the  old  woman  knew  that  stained  glass  was  more 
permanent,  and  that  it  could  be  secured  from  breakage 
by  means  of  wire  netting. 

"  Do  you  know,  Biddy,  it  will  require  three  or  four 
thousand  pounds  to  build  a  new  church.  If  I  go  to 
America  and  do  my  best  to  get  the  money,  how  much 
will  you  help  me  with?" 

S3 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  Does  your  reverence  mean  for  the  window  ?" 

"  No,  Biddy,  I  was  thinking  of  the  church  itself." 

And  Biddy  said  that  she  would  give  him  five  pounds 
to  help  to  build  the  church  and  fifty  pounds  for  her 
window,  and,  she  added,  "  If  the  best  gilding  and  paint 
costs  a  little  more  I  would  be  sorry  to  see  the  church 
short." 

"  Well,  you  say,  Biddy,  you  will  give  five  pounds 
towards  the  church.  Now,  let  us  think  how  much 
money  I  could  get  in  this  parish." 

He  had  a  taste  for  gossip,  and  he  liked  to  hear 
everyone's  domestic  details.  She  began  by  telling  him 
she  had  met  Kate  Kavanagh  on  the  road,  and  Kate  had 
told  her  that  there  had  been  great  dancing  last  night. 

"  But  there  was  no  wedding,"  said  the  priest. 

"  I  only  know,  your  reverence,  what  Kate  Kavanagh 
told  me.  There  had  been  great  dancing  last  night. 
The  supper  was  ordered  at  Michael  Dunne's,  and  the 
cars  were  ordered,  and  they  went  to  Enniskerry  and 
back." 

"  But  Michael  Dunne  would  not  dare  to  serve  sup- 
per to  people  who  were  not  married,"  said  the  priest. 

"  The  supper  had  been  ordered,  and  they  would  have 
to  pay  for  it  whether  they  ate  it  or  not.  There  was  a 
pig's  head,  and  the  cake  cost  eighteen  shillings,  and  it 
was  iced." 

"  Never  mind  the  food,"  said  the  priest,  "  tell  me 
what  happened." 

"  Kate  said  that  after  coming  back  from  Enniskerry, 
Michael  Dunne  said:  'Is  this  the  wedding  party?' 
and  that  Ned  jumped  off  the  car,  and  said:  'To  be 
sure.  Amn't  I  the  wedded  man.'  And  they  had  half 
a  barrel  of  porter." 

54 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  Never  mind  the  drink,"  said  the  priest,  "  what 
then?" 

"  There  was  dancing  first  and  fighting  after.  Pat 
Connex  and  Peter  M'Shane  were  both  there.  You 
know  Pat  plays  the  melodion,  and  he  asked  Peter  to 
sing,  and  Peter  can't  sing  a  bit,  and  he  was  laughed 
at.  So  he  grabbed  a  bit  of  stick  and  hit  Pat  on  the 
head,  and  hit  him  badly,  too.  I  hear  the  doctor  had  to 
be  sent  for." 

"  That  is  always  the  end  of  their  dancing  and  drink- 
ing," said  the  priest.  "  And  what  happened  then,  what 
happened  ?  After  that  they  went  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  reverence,  they  went  home." 

"  Mary  Byrne  went  home  with  her  own  people,  I 
suppose,  and  Ned  went  back  to  his  home." 

"  I  don't  know,  your  reverence,  what  they  did." 

"  Well,  what  else  did  Kate  Kavanagh  tell  you  ?" 

"  She  had  just  left  her  brother  and  Mary,  and  they 
were  going  towards  the  Peak.  That  is  what  Kate  told 
me  when  I  met  her  on  the  road." 

"  Mary  Byrne  would  not  go  to  live  with  a  man  to 
whom  she  was  not  married.  But  you  told  me  that 
Kate  said  she  had  just  left  Mary  Byrne  and  her 
brother." 

"  Yes,  they  were  just  coming  out  of  the  cabin,"  said 
Biddy.  "  She  passed  them  on  the  road." 

"  Out  of  whose  cabin  ?"  said  the  priest. 

"  Out  of  Ned's  cabin.  I  know  it  must  have  been 
out  of  Ned's  cabin,  because  she  said  she  met  them  at 
the  cross  roads." 

He  questioned  the  old  woman,  but  she  grew  less  and 
less  explicit. 

"  I  don't  like  to  think  this  of  Mary  Byrne,  but  after 
55 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

so  much  dancing  and  drinking,  it  is  impossible  to  say 
what  might  not  have  happened." 

"  I  suppose  they  forgot  your  reverence  didn't  marry 
them." 

"  Forgot !"  said  the  priest.  "  A  sin  has  been  com- 
mitted, and  through  my  fault." 

"  They  will  come  to  your  reverence  to-morrow  when 
they  are  feeling  a  little  better." 

The  priest  did  not  answer,  and  Biddy  said : — 

"  Am  I  to  take  away  my  money,  or  will  your  rever- 
ence keep  it  for  the  stained  glass  window." 

"  The  church  is  tumbling  down,  and  before  it  is 
built  up  you  want  me  to  put  up  statues." 

"  I'd  like  a  window  as  well  or  better." 

"  I've  got  other  things  to  think  of  now." 

"  Your  reverence  is  very  busy.  If  I  had  known  it 
I  would  not  have  come  disturbing  you.  But  I'll  take 
my  money  with  me." 

"  Yes,  take  your  money,"  he  said.  "  Go  home 
quietly,  and  say  nothing  about  what  you  have  told 
me.  I  must  think  over  what  is  best  to  be  done." 

Biddy  hurried  away  gathering  her  shawl  about  her, 
and  this  great  strong  man  who  had  taken  Pat  Connex 
by  the  collar  and  could  have  thrown  him  out  of  the 
school-room,  fell  on  his  knees  and  prayed  that  God 
might  forgive  him  the  avarice  and  anger  that  had 
caused  him  to  refuse  to  marry  Ned  Kavanagh  and 
Mary  Byrne. 

"Oh!  my  God,  oh!  my  God,"  he  said,  "Thou 
knowest  that  it  was  not  for  myself  that  I  wanted 
the  money,  it  was  to  build  up  Thine  Own  House." 

He  remembered  that  his  uncle  had  warned  him  again 
and  again  aginst  the  sin  of  anger.  He  had  thought 

56 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

lightly  of  his  uncle's  counsels,  and  he  had  not  practised 
the  virtue  of  humility,  which,  as  St.  Teresa  said,  was 
the  surest  virtue  to  seek  in  this  treacherous  world. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  give  me  strength  to  conquer  anger." 

The  servant  opened  the  door,  but  seeing  the  priest 
upon  his  knees,  she  closed  it  quietly,  and  the  priest 
prayed  that  if  sin  had  been  committed  he  might  bear 
the  punishment. 

And  on  rising  from  his  knees  he  felt  that  his  duty 
was  to  seek  out  the  sinful  couple.  But  how  to  speak 
to  them  of  their  sins?  The  sin  was  not  their's.  He 
was  the  original  wrong-doer.  If  Ned  Kavanagh  and 
Mary  Byrne  were  to  die  and  lose  their  immortal  souls, 
how  could  the  man  who  had  been  the  cause  of  the  loss 
of  two  immortal  souls,  save  his  own,  and  the  conse- 
quences of  his  refusal  to  marry  Ned  Kavanagh  and 
Mary  Byrne  seemed  to  reach  to  the  very  ends  of  Eter- 
nity. 

He  walked  to  his  uncle's  with  great  swift  steps, 
hardly  seeing  his  parishioners  as  he  passed  them  on  the 
road. 

"  Is  Father  Stafford  in?" 

"  Yes,  your  reverence." 

"  Uncle  John,  I  have  come  to  consult  you." 

The  priest  sat  huddled  in  his  arm-chair  over  the 
fire,  and  Father  Maguire  noticed  that  his  cassock  was 
covered  with  snuff,  and  he  noticed  the  fringe  of  red- 
dish hair  about  the  great  bald  head,  and  he  noticed  the 
fat  inert  hands.  And  he  noticed  these  things  more  ex- 
plicitly than  he  had  ever  noticed  them  before,  and  he 
wondered  why  he  noticed  them  so  explicitly,  for  his 
mind  was  intent  on  a  matter  of  great  spiritual  im- 
portance. 

57 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you,"  Father  Tom  said,  "  re- 
garding the  blame  attaching  to  a  priest  who  refuses  to 
marry  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman,  there  being 
no  impediment  of  consanguinity  or  other." 

"  But  have  you  refused  to  marry  anyone  because 
they  couldn't  pay  you  your  dues  ?" 

"  Listen,  the  church  is  falling." 

"  My  dear  Tom,  you  should  not  have  refused  to 
marry  them,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  his  soul-stricken 
curate  had  laid  the  matter  before  him. 

"  Nothing  can  justify  my  action  in  refusing  to  marry 
them,"  said  Father  Tom,  "  nothing.  Uncle  John,  I 
know  that  you  can  extenuate,  that  you  are  kind,  but  I 
do  not  see  it  is  possible  to  look  at  it  from  any  other 
side." 

"  My  dear  Tom,  you  are  not  sure  they  remained 
together ;  the  only  knowledge  you  have  of  the  circum- 
stances you  obtained  from  that  old  woman,  Biddy 
M'Hale,  who  cannot  tell  a  story  properly.  An  old 
gossip,  who  manufactures  stories  out  of  the  slightest 
materials  .  .  .  but  who  sells  excellent  eggs ;  her  eggs 
are  always  fresh.  I  had  two  this  morning." 

"  Uncle  John,  I  did  not  come  here  to  be  laughed 
at." 

"  I  am  not  laughing  at  you,  my  dear  Tom ;  but  really 
you  know  very  little  about  this  matter." 

"  I  know  well  enough  that  they  remained  together 
last  night.  I  examined  the  old  woman  carefully,  and 
she  had  just  met  Kate  Kavanagh  on  the  road.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  about  it,"  he  said. 

"  But,"  said  Father  John,  "  they  intended  to  be  mar- 
ried ;  the  intention  was  there." 

"  Yes,  but  the  intention  is  no  use.  We  are  not 
58 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

living  in  a  country  where  the  edicts  of  the  Council  of 
Trent  have  not  been  promulgated." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Father  John.  "  But  how  can  I 
help  you  ?  What  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"  Are  you  feeling  well  enough  for  a  walk  this 
morning  ?  Could  you  come  up  to  Kilmore  ?" 

"  But  it  is  two  miles — I  really " 

"  The  walk  will  do  you  good.  If  you  do  this  for  me, 
Uncle  John " 

"  My  dear  Tom,  I  am,  as  you  say,  not  feeling  very 
well  this  morning,  but " 

He  looked  at  his  nephew,  and  seeing  that  he  was 
suffering,  he  said: — 

"  I  know  what  these  scruples  of  conscience  are ;  they 
are  worse  than  physical  suffering." 

But  before  he  decided  to  go  with  his  nephew  to  seek 
the  sinners  out,  he  could  not  help  reading  him  a  little 
lecture. 

"  I  don't  feel  as  sure  as  you  do  that  a  sin  has  been 
committed,  but  admitting  that  a  sin  has  been  com- 
mitted, I  think  you  ought  to  admit  that  you  set  your 
face  against  the  pleasure  of  these  poor  people  too 
resolutely." 

"  Pleasure,"  said  Father  Tom.  "  Drinking  and 
dancing,  hugging  and  kissing  each  other  about  the 
lanes." 

"  You  said  dancing — now,  I  can  see  no  harm  in  it." 

"  There  is  no  harm  in  dancing,  but  it  leads  to  harm. 
If  they  only  went  back  with  their  parents  after  the 
dance,  but  they  linger  in  the  lanes." 

"  It  was  raining  the  other  night,  and  I  felt  sorry, 
and  I  said,  '  Well,  the  boys  and  girls  will  have  to  stop 
at  home  to-night,  there  will  be  no  courting  to-night.' 

59 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

If  you  do  not  let  them  walk  about  the  lanes  and  make 
their  own  marriages,  they  marry  for  money.  These 
walks  at  eventide  represent  all  the  aspiration  that  may 
come  into  their  lives.  After  they  get  married,  the  work 
of  the  world  grinds  all  the  poetry  out  of  them." 

"  Walking  under  the  moon,"  said  Father  Tom, 
"  with  their  arms  round  each  other's  waists,  sitting  for 
hours  saying  stupid  things  to  each  other — that  isn't 
my  idea  of  poetry.  The  Irish  find  poetry  in  other 
things  except  sex." 

"  Mankind,"  said  Father  John,  "  is  the  same  all  the 
world  over.  The  Irish  are  not  different  from  other 
races;  do  not  think  it.  Woman  represents  all  the 
poetry  that  the  ordinary  man  is  capable  of  appre- 
ciating." 

"  And  what  about  ourselves?" 

"  We  are  different.  We  have  put  this  interest  aside. 
I  have  never  regretted  it,  and  you  have  not  regretted 
it  either." 

"  Celibacy  has  never  been  a  trouble  to  me." 

"  But,  Tom,  your  own  temperament  should  not  pre- 
vent you  from  sympathy  with  others.  You  are  not 
the  whole  of  human  nature;  you  should  try  to  get  a 
little  outside  yourself." 

"  Can  one  ever  do  this  ?"  said  Father  Tom. 

"  Well,  you  see  what  a  difficulty  your  narrow-mind- 
edness has  brought  you  into." 

"  I  know  all  that,"  said  Father  Tom.  "  It  is  no  use 
insisting  upon  it.  Now  will  you  come  with  me  ?  They 
must  be  married  this  morning.  Will  you  come  with 
me?  I  want  you  to  talk  to  them.  You  are  kinder 
than  I  am.  You  sympathise  with  them  more  than  I 
do,  and  it  wasn't  you  who  refused  to  marry  them." 

60 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

Father  John  got  out  of  his  arm-chair  and  staggered 
about  the  room  on  his  short  fat  legs,  trying  to  find  his 
hat.  Father  Tom  said : — 

"  Here  it  is.  You  don't  want  your  umbrella.  There's 
no  sign  of  rain." 

"  No,"  said  his  uncle,  "  but  it  will  be  very  hot  pres- 
ently. My  dear  Tom,  I  can't  walk  fast." 

"  I  am  sorry,  I  didn't  know  I  was  walking  fast." 

"  You  are  walking  at  the  rate  of  four  miles  an  hour 
at  the  least." 

"  I  am  sorry,  I  will  walk  slower." 

At  the  cross  rods  inquiry  was  made,  and  the  priests 
were  told  that  the  cabin  Ned  Kavanagh  had  taken  was 
the  last  one. 

"  That's  just  another  half-mile,"  remarked  Father 
John. 

"  If  we  don't  hasten  we  shall  be  late." 

"  We  might  rest  here,"  said  Father  John,  "  for  a 
moment,"  and  he  leaned  against  a  gate.  "  My  dear 
Tom,  it  seems  to  me  you're  agitating  yourself  a  little 
unnecessarily  about  Ned  Kavanagh  and  his  wife — I 
mean  the  girl  he  is  going  to  marry." 

"  I  am  quite  sure.  Ned  Kavanagh  brought  Mary 
back  to  his  cabin.  There  can  be  no  doubt." 

"  Even  so,"  said  Father  John.  "  He  may  have 
thought  he  was  married." 

"  How  could  he  have  thought  he  was  married  unless 
he  was  drunk,  and  that  cannot  be  put  forward  as  an 
excuse.  No,  my  dear  uncle,  you  are  inclined  for 
subtleties  this  morning." 

"  He  may  have  thought  he  was  married.  Moreover, 
he  intended  to  be  married,  and  if  through  forgetful- 
ness " 

61 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  Forgetfulness !"  cried  Father  Maguire.  "  A  pretty 
large  measure  of  forgetfulness !" 

"  I  shouldn't  say  that  a  mortal  sin  has  been  com- 
mitted; a  venial  one.  .  .  .  If  he  intended  to  be 
married " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  we  shall  be  late,  we  shall  be 
late !" 

Father  Stafford  repressed  the  smile  that  gathered  in 
the  corner  of  his  lips,  and  he  remembered  how  Father 
Tom  had  kept  him  out  of  bed  till  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  talking  to  him  about  St.  Thomas  Aquinas. 

"  If  they're  to  be  married  to-day  we  must  be  getting 
on."  And  Father  Maguire's  stride  grew  more  impa- 
tient. "  I'll  walk  on  in  front." 

At  last  he  spied  a  woman  in  a  field,  and  she  told  him 
that  the  married  couple  had  gone  towards  the  Peak. 
Most  of  them  had  gone  for  a  walk,  but  Pat  Connex 
was  in  bed,  and  the  doctor  had  to  be  sent  for. 

"  I've  heard,"  said  Father  Tom,  "  of  last  night's 
drunkenness.  Half  a  barrel  of  porter;  there's  what 
remains,"  he  said,  pointing  to  some  stains  on  the  road- 
way. "  They  were  too  drunk  to  turn  off  the  tap." 

"  I  heard  your  reverence  wouldn't  marry  them,"  the 
woman  said. 

"  I  am  going  to  bring  them  down  to  the  church  at 
once." 

"  Well,  if  you  do,"  said  the  woman,  "  you  won't  be  a 
penny  the  poorer;  you  will  have  your  money  at  the 
end  of  the  week.  And  how  do  you  do,  your  reverence." 
The  woman  dropped  a  curtsey  to  Father  Stafford. 
"  It's  seldom  we  see  you  up  here." 

"  They  have  gone  towards  the  Peak,"  said  Father 
Tom,  for  he  saw  his  uncle  would  take  advantage  of 

62 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

the  occasion  to  gossip.  "  We  shall  catch  them  up 
there." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  equal  to  it,  Tom.  I'd  like  to 
do  this  for  you,  but  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  equal  to 
another  half-mile  up-hill." 

Father  Maguire  strove  to  hypnotize  his  parish 
priest. 

"  Uncle  John,  you  are  called  upon  to  make  this  effort. 
I  cannot  speak  to  these  people  as  I  should  like  to." 

"  If  you  spoke  to  them  as  you  would  like  to,  you 
would  only  make  matters  worse,"  said  Father  John. 

"  Very  likely,  I'm  not  in  a  humour  to  contest  these 
things  with  you.  But  I  beseech  you  to  come  with  me. 
Come,"  he  said,  "  take  my  arm." 

They  went  a  few  hundred  yards  up  the  road,  then 
there  was  another  stoppage,  and  Father  Maguire  had 
again  to  exercise  his  power  of  will,  and  he  was  so 
successful  that  the  last  half-mile  of  the  road  was 
accomplished  almost  without  a  stop. 

At  Michael  Dunne's,  the  priests  learned  that  the 
wedding  party  had  been  there,  and  Father  Stafford 
called  for  a  lemonade. 

"  Don't  fail  me  now,  Uncle  John.  They  are  within 
a  few  hundred  yards  of  us.  I  couldn't  meet  them 
without  you.  Think  of  it.  If  they  were  to  tell  me  that 
I  had  refused  to  marry  them  for  two  pounds,  my 
authority  would  be  gone  for  ever.  I  should  have  to 
leave  the  parish." 

"  My  dear  Tom,  I  would  do  it  if  I  could,  but  I  am 
completely  exhausted." 

At  that  moment  sounds  of  voices  were  heard. 

"  Listen  to  them,  Uncle  John."  And  the  curate  took 
the  glass  from  Father  John.  "  They  are  not  as  far  as 

63 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

I  thought,  they  are  sitting  under  these  trees.    Come," 
he  said. 

They  walked  some  twenty  yards,  till  they  reached  a 
spot  where  the  light  came  pouring  through  the  young 
leaves,  and  all  the  brown  leaves  of  last  year  were  spotted 
with  light.  There  were  light  shadows  amid  the  rocks 
and  pleasant  mosses,  and  the  sounds  of  leaves  and 
water,  and  from  the  top  of  a  rock  Kate  listened  while 
Peter  told  her  they  would  rebuild  his  house. 

"  The  priests  are  after  us,"  she  said. 

And  she  gave  a  low  whistle,  and  the  men  and  boys 
looked  round,  and  seeing  the  priests  coming,  they  dis- 
persed, taking  several  paths,  and  none  but  Ned  and 
Mary  were  left  behind.  Ned  was  dozing,  Mary  was 
sitting  beside  him  fanning  herself  with  her  hat ;  they 
had  not  heard  Kate's  whistle,  and  they  did  not  see  the 
priests  until  they  were  by  them. 

"  Now,  Tom,  don't  lose  your  head,  be  quiet  with 
them." 

"  Will  you  speak  to  them,  or  shall  I  ?"  said  Father 
Tom. 

In  the  excitement  of  the  moment  he  forgot  his  own 
imperfections  and  desired  to  admonish  them. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  let  me  speak  to  them,"  said 
Father  John.  "  You  are  Ned  Kavanagh,"  he  said, 
"  and  you  are  Mary  Byrne,  I  believe.  Now,  I  don't 
know  you  all,  for  I  am  getting  an  old  man,  and  I  don't 
often  come  up  this  way.  But  notwithstanding  my  age, 
and  the  heat  of  the  day,  I  have  come  up,  for  I  have 
heard  that  you  have  not  acted  as  good  Catholics  should. 
I  don't  doubt  for  a  moment  that  you  intended  to  get 
married,  but  you  have,  I  fear,  been  guilty  of  a  great 
sin,  and  you've  set  a  bad  example." 

64 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  We  were  on  our  way  to  your  reverence  now,"  said 
Mary.  "  I  mean  to  his  reverence." 

"  Well,"  said  Father  Tom,  "  you  are  certainly  taking 
your  time  over  it,  lying  here  half  asleep  under  the 
trees." 

"  We  hadn't  the  money,"  said  Mary,  "  it  wasn't  our 
fault." 

"  Didn't  I  say  I'd  marry  you  for  nothing  ?" 

"  But  sure,  your  reverence,  that's  only  a  way  of 
speaking." 

"  There's  no  use  lingering  here,"  said  Father  Tom. 
"  Ned,  you  took  the  pledge  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and  yesterday  you  were  tipsy." 

"  I  may  have  had  a  drop  of  drink  in  me,  your  rev- 
erence. Pat  Connex  passed  me  the  mug  of  porter  and 
I  forgot  myself." 

"  And  once,"  said  the  priest,  "  you  tasted  the  porter 
you  thought  you  could  go  on  taking  it." 

Ned  did  not  answer,  and  the  priests  whispered 
together. 

"  We  are  half  way  now,"  said  Father  Tom,  "  we  can 
get  there  before  twelve  o'clock." 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  equal  to  it,"  said  Father  John. 
"  I  really  don't  think " 

The  sounds  of  wheels  were  heard,  and  a  peasant 
driving  a  donkey  cart  came  up  the  road. 

"  You  see  it  is  all  up-hill,"  said  Father  John.  "  See 
how  the  road  ascends.  I  never  could  manage  it." 

"  The  road  is  pretty  flat  at  the  top  of  the  hill  once 
you  get  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  the  cart  will  take  you 
to  the  top." 

It  seemed  undignified  to  get  into  the  donkey  cart, 
but  his  nephew's  conscience  was  at  stake,  and  the 
5  65 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

Vicar-General  got  in,  and  Father  Tom  said  to  the 
unmarried  couple: — 

"  Now  walk  on  in  front  of  us,  and  step  out  as  quickly 
as  you  can." 

And  on  the  way  to  the  church  Father  Tom  remem- 
bered that  he  had  caught  sight  of  Kate  standing  at  the 
top  of  the  rock  talking  to  Peter  M'Shane.  In  a  few 
days  they  would  come  to  him  to  be  married,  and  he 
hoped  that  Peter  and  Kate's  marriage  would  make 
amends  for  this  miserable  patchwork,  for  Ned  Kav- 
anagh  and  Mary  Byrne's  marriage  was  no  better  than 
patchwork. 

IV 

MRS.  CONN  EX  promised  the  priest  to  keep  Pat  at 
home  out  of  Kate's  way,  and  the  neighbours  knew  it 
was  the  priest's  wish  that  they  should  do  all  they  could 
to  help  him  to  bring  about  this  marriage,  and  every- 
where Kate  went  she  heard  nothing  talked  of  but  her 
marriage. 

The  dress  that  Kate  was  to  be  married  in  was  a  nice 
grey  silk.  It  had  been  bought  at  a  rummage  sale,  and 
she  was  told  that  it  suited  her.  But  Kate  had  begun 
to  feel  that  she  was  being  driven  into  a  trap.  In  the 
week  before  her  marriage  she  tried  to  escape.  She 
went  to  Dublin  to  look  for  a  situation ;  but  she  did  not 
find  one.  She  had  not  seen  Pat  since  the  poultry 
lecture,  and  his  neglect  angered  her.  She  did  not  care 
what  became  of  her. 

On  the  morning  of  her  wedding  she  turned  round 
and  asked  her  sister  if  she  thought  she  ought  to  marry 
Peter,  and  Julia  said  it  would  be  a  pity  if  she  didn't. 

66 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

Six  cars  had  been  engaged,  and,  feeling  she  was  done 
for,  she  went  to  the  church,  hoping  it  would  fall  down 
on  her.  Well,  the  priest  had  his  way,  and  Kate  felt  she 
hated  him  and  Mrs.  M 'Shane,  who  stood  on  the  edge 
of  the  road.  The  fat  were  distributed  alongside  of  the 
lean,  and  the  bridal  party  drove  away,  and  there  was  a 
great  waving  of  hands,  and  Mrs.  M'Shane  waited  until 
the  last  car  was  out  of  sight. 

Her  husband  had  been  dead  many  years,  and  she 
lived  with  her  son  in  a  two-roomed  cabin.  She  was 
one  of  those  simple,  kindly  natures  that  everyone  likes 
and  that  everyone  despises,  and  she  returned  home  like 
a  lonely  goose,  waddling  slowly,  a  little  overcome  by 
the  thought  of  the  happiness  that  awaited  her  son. 
There  would  be  no  more  lonely  evenings  in  the  cabin ; 
Kate  would  be  with  him  now,  and  later  on  there  would 
be  some  children,  and  she  waddled  home  thinking  of 
the  cradle  and  the  joy  it  would  be  to  her  to  take  her 
grandchildren  upon  her  knee.  When  she  returned  to 
the  cottage  she  sat  down,  so  that  she  might  dream 
over  her  happiness  a  little  longer.  But  she  had  not 
been  sitting  long  when  she  remembered  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  work  to  be  done.  The  cabin  would  have 
to  be  cleaned  from  end  to  end,  there  was  the  supper 
to  be  cooked,  and  she  did  not  pause  in  her  work  until 
everything  was  ready.  At  five  the  pig's  head  was  on 
the  table,  and  the  sheep's  tongues ;  the  bread  was 
baked;  the  barrel  of  porter  had  come,  and  she  was 
expecting  the  piper  every  minute.  As  she  stood  with 
her  arms  akimbo  looking  at  the  table,  thinking  of  the 
great  evening  it  would  be,  she  thought  how  her  old 
friend,  Annie  Connex,  had  refused  to  come  to  Peter's 
wedding.  Wasn't  all  the  village  saying  that  Kate 

67 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

would  not  have  married  Peter  if  she  had  not  been 
driven  to  it  by  the  priest  and  by  her  mother. 

"  Poor  boy,"  she  thought,  "  his  heart  is  so  set  upon 
her  that  he  has  no  ears  for  any  word  against  her." 

She  could  not  understand  why  people  should  talk  ill 
of  a  girl  on  her  wedding  day.  "  Why  shouldn't  a  girl 
be  given  a  chance  ?"  she  asked  herself.  "  Why  should 
Annie  Connex  prevent  her  son  from  coming  to  the 
dance?  If  she  were  to  go  to  her  now  and  ask  her  if 
she  would  come?  and  if  she  would  not  come  herself, 
if  she  would  let  Pat  come  round  for  an  hour?  If 
Annie  would  do  this  all  the  gossips  would  have  their 
tongues  tied.  Anyhow  she  could  try  to  persuade  her." 
And  she  locked  her  door  and  walked  up  the  road  and 
knocked  at  Mrs.  Connex's. 

Prosperity  in  the  shapes  of  pig  styes  and  stables  had 
collected  round  Annie's  door,  and  Mrs.  M 'Shane  was 
proud  to  be  a  visitor  in  such  a  house. 

"  I  came  round,  Annie,  to  tell  you  they're  married." 

"  Well,  come  in,  Mary,"  she  said,  "  if  you  have  the 
time." 

The  first  part  of  the  sentence  was  prompted  by  the 
news  that  Kate  was  safely  married  and  out  of  Pat's 
way ;  and  the  second  half  of  the  sentence,  "  if  you  have 
the  time,"  was  prompted  by  a  wish  that  Mary  should  see 
that  she  need  not  come  again  for  some  time  at  least. 

To  Annie  Connex  the  Kavanagh  family  was  abomi- 
nation. The  father  got  eighteen  shillings  a  week  for 
doing  a  bit  of  gardening.  Ned  had  been  a  quarryman, 
now  he  was  out  of  work  and  did  odd  jobs.  The  Kav- 
anaghs  took  in  a  baby,  and  they  got  five  or  six  shillings 
a  week  for  that.  Mrs.  Kavanagh  sold  geraniums  at 
more  than  their  value,  and  she  got  more  than  the  market 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

value  for  her  chickens — she  sold  them  to  charitable  folk 
who  were  anxious  to  encourage  poultry  farming ;  and 
now  Julia,  the  second  daughter,  had  gone  in  for  lace 
making,  and  she  made  a  lace  that  looked  as  if  it  were 
cut  out  of  paper,  and  sold  it  for  three  times  its  market 
value. 

And  to  sell  above  market  value  was  abominable  to 
Annie  Connex.  Her  idea  of  life  was  order  and  admin- 
istration, and  the  village  she  lived  in  was  thriftless  and 
idle.  The  Kavanaghs  received  out-door  relief ;  they  got 
two  shillings  a  week  off  the  rates,  though  every  Satur- 
day evening  they  bought  a  quarter  barrel  of  porter,  and 
Annie  Connex  could  not  believe  in  the  future  of  a 
country  that  would  tolerate  such  a  thing.  If  her  son 
had  married  a  Kavanagh  her  life  would  have  come 
to  an  end,  and  the  twenty  years  she  had  worked  for 
him  would  have  been  wasted  years.  Thank  God,  Kate 
was  out  of  her  son's  way,  and  on  seeing  Mary  she 
resolved  that  Pat  should  never  cross  the  M'Shane's 
threshold. 

Mrs.  M'Shane  looked  round  the  comfortable  kitchen, 
with  sides  of  bacon,  and  home-cured  hams  hanging 
from  the  rafters.  She  had  not  got  on  in  life  as  well  as 
Mrs.  Connex,  and  she  knew  she  would  never  have  a 
beautiful  closed  range,  but  an  open  hearth  till  the  end 
of  her  days.  She  could  never  have  a  nice  dresser  with 
a  pretty  carved  top.  The  dresser  in  her  kitchen  was 
deal,  and  had  no  nice  shining  brass  knobs  on  it.  She 
would  never  have  a  parlour,  and  this  parlour  had  in 
it  a  mahogany  table  and  a  grandfather's  clock  that 
would  show  you  the  moon  on  it  just  the  same  as  it  was 
in  the  sky,  and  there  was  a  glass  over  the  fireplace. 
This  was  Annie  Connex's  own  parlour.  The  parlour 

69 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

on  the  other  side  of  the  house  was  even  better  fur- 
nished, for  in  the  summer  months  Mrs.  Connex  bedded 
and  boarded  her  lodgers  for  one  pound  or  one  pound 
•five  shillings  a  week. 

"  So  she  was  married  to-day,  and  Father  Maguire 
married  her  after  all.  I  never  thought  he  would  have 
brought  her  to  it.  Well,  I'm  glad  she's  married."  It 
rose  to  Mary's  lips  to  say,  "  you  are  glad  she  didn't 
marry  your  son,"  but  she  put  back  the  words.  "  It 
comes  upon  me  as  a  bit  of  surprise,  for  sure  and  all  I 
could  never  see  her  settling  down  in  the  parish." 

"  Them  that  are  the  wildest  before  marriage  are 
often  the  best  after,  and  I  think  it  will  be  like  that 
with  Kate." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Annie.  "  And  there  is  reason  why 
it  should  be  like  that.  She  must  have  liked  Peter  better 
than  we  thought;  you  will  never  get  me  to  believe 
that  it  was  the  priest's  will  or  anybody's  will  that 
brought  Kate  to  do  what  she  did." 

"  I  hope  she'll  make  my  boy  a  good  wife." 

"  I  hope  so,  too,"  said  Annie,  and  the  women  sat 
over  the  fire  thinking  it  out. 

Annie  Connex  wore  an  apron,  and  a  black  straw  hat ; 
and  her  eyes  were  young,  and  kind,  and  laughing,  but 
Mrs.  M'Shane,  who  had  known  her  for  twenty  years, 
often  wondered  what  Annie  would  have  been  like  if 
sha  had  not  got  a  kind  husband,  and  if  good  luck  had 
not  attended  her  all  through  life. 

"  We  never  had  anyone  like  her  before  in  the  parish. 
I  hear  she  turned  round  to  her  sister  Julia,  who  was 
dressing  her,  and  said,  '  Now  am  I  to  marry  him,  or 
shall  I  go  to  America?'  And  she  was  putting  on  her 
grey  dress  at  the  time." 

70 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  She  looked  well  in  that  grey  dress;  there  was  lace 
on  the  front  of  it,  and  everyone  said  that  a  handsomer 
girl  hasn't  been  married  in  the  parish  for  years.  There 
isn't  a  man  in  the  parish  that  would  not  be  in  Peter's 
place  to-day  if  he  only  dared." 

"  I  don't  catch  your  meaning,  Mary." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  it  now  that 
she's  my  own  daughter,  but  I  think  many  would  have 
been  a  bit  afraid  of  her  after  what  she  said  to  the 
priest  three  days  ago." 

"  She  did  have  her  tongue  on  him.  People  are  tell- 
ing all  ends  of  stories." 

"  Tis  said  that  Father  Maguire  was  up  at  the  Kava- 
nagh's  three  days  ago,  and  I  heard  that  she  hunted 
him.  She  called  him  a  policeman,  and  a  tax  collector, 
and  a  landlord,  and  if  she  said  this  she  said  more  to  a 
priest  than  anyone  ever  said  before.  '  There  are  plenty 
of  people  in  the  parish,'  she  said,  '  who  believe  he  could 
turn  them  into  rabbits  if  he  liked.'  As  for  the  rabbits 
she  isn't  far  from  the  truth,  though  I  don't  take  it  on 
myself  to  say  if  it  be  a  truth  or  a  lie.  But  I  know  for 
a  fact  that  Patsy  Rogan  was  going  to  vote  for  the 
Unionist  to  please  his  landlord,  but  the  priest  had  been 
to  see  his  wife,  who  was  going  to  be  confined,  and 
didn't  he  tell  her  that  if  Patsy  voted  for  the  wrong 
man  there  would  be  horns  on  the  new  baby,  and  Mrs. 
Rogan  was  so  frightened  that  she  wouldn't  let  her 
husband  go  when  he  came  in  that  night  till  he  had 
promised  to  vote  as  the  priest  wished." 

"  Patsy  Rogan  is  an  ignorant  man,"  said  Annie, 
"  there  are  many  like  him  even  here." 

"  Ah,  sure  there  will  be  always  some  like  him.  Don't 
we  like  to  believe  the  priest  can  do  all  things." 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  But  Kate  doesn't  believe  the  priest  can  do  these 
things.  Anyhow  she's  married,  and  there  will  be  an 
end  to  all  the  work  that  has  been  going  on." 

"  That's  true  for  you,  Annie,  and  that's  just  what  I 
came  to  talk  to  you  about.  I  think  now  she's  married 
we  ought  to  give  her  a  chance.  Every  girl  ought  to  get 
her  chance,  and  the  way  to  put  an  end  to  all  this  talk 
about  her  will  be  for  you  to  come  round  to  the  dance 
to-night." 

"  1  don't  know  that  I  can  do  that.  I  am  not  friends 
with  the  Kavanaghs,  though  I  always  bid  them  the 
time  of  day  when  I  meet  them  on  the  road." 

"  If  you  come  in  for  a  few  minutes,  or  if  Pat  were 
to  come  in  for  a  few  minutes.  If  Peter  and  Pat  aren't 
friends  they'll  be  enemies." 

"  Maybe  they'd  be  worse  enemies  if  I  don't  keep  Pat 
out  of  Kate's  way.  She's  married  Peter ;  but  her  mind 
is  not  settled  yet." 

"  Yes,  Annie,  I've  thought  of  all  that ;  but  they'll  be 
meeting  on  the  road,  and,  if  they  aren't  friends,  there 
will  be  quarrelling,  and  some  bad  deed  may  be  done." 

Annie  did  not  answer,  and,  thinking  to  convince  her, 
Mary  said: — 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  see  a  corpse  right  over  your 
window." 

"  It  ill  becomes  you,  Mary,  to  speak  of  corpses  after 
the  blow  that  Peter  gave  Pat  with  his  stick  at  Ned 
Kavanagh's  wedding.  No;  I  must  stand  by  my  son, 
and  I  must  keep  him  out  of  the  low  Irish,  and  he  won't 
be  safe  until  I  get  him  a  good  wife." 

"  The  low  Irish !  indeed,  Annie,  it  ill  becomes  you 
to  talk  that  way  of  your  neighbours.  Is  it  because 
none  of  us  have  brass  knockers  on  our  doors  ?  I  have 

72 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

seen  this  pride  growing  up  in  you,  Annie  Connex,  this 
long  while.  There  isn't  one  in  the  village  now  that 
you've  any  respect  for  except  the  grocer,  that  black 
Protestant,  who  sits  behind  his  counter  and  makes 
money,  and  knows  no  enjoyment  in  life  at  all." 

"  That's  your  way  of  looking  at  it ;  but  it  isn't  mine. 
I  set  my  face  against  my  son  marrying  Kate  Kava- 
nagh,  and  you  should  have  done  the  same." 

"  Something  will  happen  to  you  for  the  cruel  words 
you  have  spoken  to  me  this  day." 

"  Mary,  you  came  to  ask  me  to  your  son's  wedding, 
and  I  had  to  tell  you " 

"  Yes,  and  you've  told  me  that  you  won't  come,  and 
that  you  hate  the  Kavanaghs,  and  you've  said  all  you 
could  against  them.  I  should  not  have  listened  to  all 
you  said;  if  I  did,  it  is  because  we  have  known  each 
other  these  twenty  years.  Don't  I  remember  well  the 
rags  you  had  on  your  back  when  you  came  to  this 
village.  It  ill  becomes " 

Mrs.  M'Shane  got  up  and  went  out  and  Annie  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  gate. 

The  sounds  of  wheels  and  hoofs  were  heard,  and  the 
wedding  party  passed  by,  and  on  the  first  car  whom 
should  they  see  but  Kate  sitting  between  Pat  and 
Peter. 

"  Good-bye,  Annie.  I  see  that  Pat's  coming  to  our 
dance  after  all.  I  must  hurry  down  the  road  to  open 
the  door  to  him." 

And  she  laughed  as  she  waddled  down  the  road,  and 
she  could  not  speak  for  want  of  breath  when  she  got  to 
the  door.  They  were  all  there,  Pat  and  the  piper  and 
Kate  and  Peter  and  all  their  friends;  and  she  could 
not  speak,  and  hadn't  the  strength  to  find  the  key.  She 

73 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

could  only  think  of  the  black  look  that  had  come  over 
Annie's  face  when  she  saw  Pat  sitting  by  Kate  on  the 
car.  She  had  told  Annie  that  she  would  be  punished, 
and  Mrs.  M 'Shane  laughed  as  she  searched  for  the 
key,  thinking  how  quickly  her  punishment  had  come. 

She  searched  for  the  key,  and  all  the  while  they  were 
telling  her  how  they  had  met  Pat  at  Michael  Dunne's. 

"  When  he  saw  us  he  tried  to  sneak  into  the  yard ; 
but  I  went  after  him.  And  don't  you  think  I  did 
right?"  Kate  said,  as  they  went  into  the  house.  And 
when  they  were  all  inside,  she  said :  "  Now  I'll  get  the 
biggest  jug  of  porter,  and  one  shall  drink  one  half  and 
the  other  the  other." 

Peter  was  fond  of  jugs,  and  had  large  and  small; 
some  were  white  and  brown,  and  some  were  gilt,  with 
pink  flowers.  At  last  she  chose  the  great  brown  one. 

"  Now,  Peter,  you'll  say  something  nice." 

"  I'll  say,  then,"  said  Peter,  "  this  is  the  happiest  day 
of  my  life,  as  it  should  be,  indeed ;  for  haven't  I  got  the 
girl  that  I  wanted,  and  hasn't  Pat  forgiven  me  for  the 
blow  I  struck  him  ?  For  he  knows  well  I  wouldn't  hurt 
a  hair  of  his  head.  Weren't  we  boys  together  ?  But  I 
had  a  cross  drop  in  me  at  the  time,  and  that  was  how 
it  was." 

Catching  sight  of  Kate's  black  hair  and  rosy  cheeks, 
which  were  all  the  world  to  him,  he  stopped  speaking 
and  stood  looking  at  her,  unheedful  of  everything; 
and  he  looked  so  good  and  foolish  at  that  time  that 
more  than  one  woman  thought  it  would  be  a  weary 
thing  to  live  with  him. 

"  Now,  Pat,  you  must  make  a  speech,  too,"  said 
Kate. 

"  I  haven't  any  speech  in  me,"  he  said.    "  I'm  glad 
74 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

enough  to  be  here ;  but  I'm  sore  afraid  my  mother  saw 
me  sitting  on  the  car,  and  I  think  I  had  better  be  going 
home  and  letting  you  finish  this  marriage." 

"What's  that  you're  saying?"  said  Kate.  "You 
won't  go  out  of  this  house  till  you've  danced  a  reel  with 
me,  and  now  sit  down  at  the  table  next  to  me;  and, 
Peter,  you  sit  on  the  other  side  of  him,  so  that  he  won't 
run  away  to  his  mother." 

Her  eyes  were  as  bright  as  coals  of  fire,  and  she 
called  to  her  father,  who  was  at  the  end  of  the  table,  to 
have  another  slice  of  pig's  head,  and  to  the  piper,  who 
was  having  his  supper  in  the  window,  to  have  a  bit 
more;  and  then  she  turned  to  Pat,  who  said  never  a 
word,  and  laughed  at  him  for  having  nothing  to 
say. 

It  seemed  to  them  as  if  there  was  no  one  in  the  room 
but  Kate;  and  afterwards  they  remembered  things. 
Ned  remembered  that  Kate  had  seemed  to  put  Pat  out 
of  her  mind.  She  had  stood  talking  to  her  husband, 
and  she  had  said  that  he  must  dance  with  her,  though 
it  was  no  amusement  to  a  girl  to  dance  opposite  Peter. 
And  Mary,  Ned's  wife,  remembered  how  Kate,  though 
she  had  danced  with  Peter  in  the  first  reel,  had  not  been 
able  to  keep  her  eyes  from  the  corner  where  Pat  sat 
sulking,  and  that,  sudden-like,  she  had  grown  weary 
of  Peter.  Mary  remembered  she  had  seen  a  wild  look 
pass  in  Kate's  eyes,  and  that  she  had  gone  over  to  Pat 
and  pulled  him  out. 

It  was  a  pleasure  for  a  girl  to  dance  opposite  to  Pat, 
so  cleverly  did  his  feet  move  to  the  tune.  And  every- 
one was  admiring  them  when  Pat  cried  out : — 

"  I'm  going  home.  I  bid  you  all  good-night ;  here 
finish  this  wedding  as  you  like." 

75 


SOME  PARISHIONERS 

And  before  anyone  could  stop  him  he  had  run  out  of 
the  house. 

"  Peter,  go  after  him,"  Kate  said ;  "  bring  him  back. 
It  would  be  ill  luck  on  our  wedding  night  for  anyone 
to  leave  us  like  that." 

Peter  went  out  of  the  door,  and  was  away  some 
time;  but  he  came  back  without  Pat. 

"  The  night  is  that  dark,  I  lost  him,"  he  said. 

Then  Kate  did  not  seem  to  care  what  she  said.  Her 
black  hair  fell  down,  and  she  told  Peter  he  was  a  fool, 
and  that  he  should  have  run  faster.  Her  mother  said  it 
was  the  porter  that  had  been  too  much  for  her;  but 
she  said  it  was  the  priest's  blessing,  and  this  frightened 
everyone.  But,  after  saying  all  this,  she  went  to  her 
husband,  saying  that  he  was  very  good  to  her,  and  she 
had  no  fault  to  find  with  him.  But  no  sooner  were  the 
words  out  of  her  mouth  than  her  mind  seemed  to 
wander,  and  everyone  had  expected  her  to  run  out  of 
the  house.  But  she  went  into  the  other  room  instead, 
and  shut  the  door  behind  her.  Everyone  knew  then 
there  would  be  no  more  dancing  that  night;  and  the 
piper  packed  up  his  pipes.  And  Peter  sat  by  the  fire, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  crying.  They  were  all  sorry  to 
leave  him  like  this ;  and,  so  that  he  might  not  remem- 
ber what  had  happened,  Ned  drew  a  big  jug  of  porter, 
and  put  it  by  him. 

He  drank  a  sup  out  of  it,  but  seemed  to  forget  every- 
thing, and  the  jug  fell  out  of  his  hand. 

"  Never  mind  the  pieces,  Peter,"  his  mother  said. 
"  You  can't  put  them  together ;  and  it  would  be  better 
for  you  not  to  drink  any  more  porter.  Go  to  bed. 
There's  been  too  much  drinking  this  night." 

"  Mother,  I  want  to  know  why  she  said  I  didn't  run 
76 


. 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 


fast  enough  after  Pat.  And  didn't  she  know  that  if  I 
hit  Pat  so  hard  it  was  because  there  were  knobs  on  his 
stick ;  and  didn't  I  pick  up  his  stick  by  mistake  of  my 
own." 

"  Sure,  Peter,  it  wasn't  your  fault ;  we  all  know  that 
and  Kate  knows  it  too.  Now  let  there  be  no  more 
talking  or  drinking.  No,  Peter,  you've  had  enough 
porter  for  to-night." 

He  looked  round  the  kitchen,  and  seeing  that  Kate 
was  not  there,  he  said: — 

"  She's  in  the  other  room,  I  think ;  mother,  you'll  be 
wantin'  to  go  to  bed." 

And  Peter  got  on  his  feet  and  stumbled  against  the 
wall,  and  his  mother  had  to  help  him  towards  the  door. 

"  Is  it  drunk  I  am,  mother  ?  Will  you  open  the  door 
forme?" 

But  Mrs.  M'Shane  could  not  open  the  door,  and  she 
said : — 

"  I  think  she's  put  a  bit  of  stick  in  it." 

"  A  bit  of  stick  in  the  door?  And  didn't  she  say  that 
she  didn't  want  to  marry  me?  Didn't  she  say  some- 
thing about  the  priest's  blessing  ?" 

And  then  Peter  was  sore  afraid  that  he  would  not 
get  sight  of  his  wife  that  night,  and  he  said : — 

"  Won't  she  acquie-esh-sh  ?" 

And  Kate  said : — 

"  No,  I  won't." 

And  then  he  said : — 

"  We  were  married  in  church — to-day,  you  acquie- 
eshed." 

And  she  said : — 

"  I'll  not  open  the  door  to  you.     You're  drunk, 
Peter,  and  not  fit  to  enter  a  decent  woman's  room." 

77 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  It  isn't  because  I've  a  drop  too  much  in  me  that 
you  should  have  fastened  the  door  on  me ;  it  is  because 
you're  thinking  of  the  blow  I've  gave  Pat.  But,  Kate, 
it  was  because  I  loved  you  so  much  that  I  struck  him. 
Now  will  you  open — the  door?" 

"  No,  I'll  not  open  the  door  to-night,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  tired  and  want  to  go  to  sleep." 

And  when  he  said  he  would  break  open  the  door,  she 
said : — 

"  You're  too  drunk,  Peter,  and  sorra  bit  of  good  it 
will  do  you.  I'll  be  no  wife  to  you  to-night,  and  that's 
as  true  as  God's  in  heaven." 

"  Peter,"  said  his  mother,  "  don't  trouble  her  to- 
night. There  has  been  too  much  dancing  and  drink- 
ing." 

"  It's  a  hard  thing  .  .  .  shut  out  of  his  wife's 
room." 

"  Peter,  don't  vex  her  to-night.  Don't  hammer  her 
door  any  more." 

"  Didn't  she  acquie-esh  ?  Mother,  you  have  always 
been  agin  me.  Didn't  she  acquie-esh?" 

"  Oh,  Peter,  why  do  you  say  I'm  agin  you?" 

"  Did  you  hear  her  say  that  I  was  drunk.  If  you 
tell  me  I'm  drunk  I'll  say  no  more.  I'll  acquie-esh." 

"  Peter,  you  must  go  to  sleep." 

"  Yes,  go  to  sleep.  .  .  .  I  want  to  go  to  sleep, 
but  she  won't  open  the  door." 

"  Peter,  never  mind  her." 

"  It  isn't  that  I  mind ;  I'm  getting  sleepy,  but  what 
I  want  to  know,  mother,  before  I  go  to  bed,  is  if  I'm 
drunk.  Tell  me  I'm  not  drunk  on  my  wedding  night, 
and,  though  Kate — and  I'll  acquie-esh  in  all  that  may 
be  put  upon  me." 

78 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  his  mother 
begged  him  not  to  cry.  He  became  helpless,  she  put 
a  blanket  under  his  head  and  covered  him  with  another 
blanket,  and  went  up  the  ladder  and  lay  down  in  the 
hay.  She  asked  herself  what  had  she  done  to  deserve 
this  trouble  ?  and  she  cried  a  great  deal ;  and  the  poor, 
hapless  old  woman  was  asleep  in  the  morning  when 
Peter  stumbled  to  his  feet.  And,  after  dipping  his 
head  in  a  pail  of  water,  he  remembered  that  the  horses 
were  waiting  for  him  in  the  farm.  He  walked  off  to 
his  work,  staggering  a  little,  and  as  soon  as  he  was 
gone  Kate  drew  back  the  bolt  of  the  door  and  came 
into  the  kitchen. 

"  I'm  going,  mother,"  she  called  up  to  the  loft. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  M'Shane,  and  she 
was  half  way  down  the  ladder  when  Kate  said : — 

"  I  can't  wait,  I'm  going." 

She  walked  up  the  road  to  her  mother's,  and  she 
hardly  saw  the  fields  or  the  mountains,  though  she 
knew  she  would  never  look  upon  them  again.  And 
her  mother  was  sweeping  out  the  house.  She  had 
the  chairs  out  in  the  pathway.  She  had  heard  that 
the  rector  was  coming  down  that  afternoon,  and  she 
wanted  to  show  him  how  beautifully  clean  she  kept  the 
cabin. 

"  I've  come,  mother,  to  give  you  this,"  and  she  took 
the  wedding  ring  off  her  finger  and  threw  it  on  the 
ground.  "  I  don't  want  it ;  I  shut  the  door  on  him 
last  night,  and  I'm  going  to  America  to-day.  You  see 
how  well  the  marriage  that  you  and  the  priest  made  up 
together  has  turned  out." 

"  Going  to  America,"  said  Mrs.  Kavanagh,  and  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  Kate  might  be  going  to 

79 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

America  with  Pat  Connex,  but  she  did  not  dare  to 
say  it. 

She  stood  looking  at  the  bushes  that  grew  between 
their  cottage  and  the  next  one,  and  she  remembered 
how  she  and  her  brother  used  to  cut  the  branches  of 
the  alder  to  make  pop  guns,  for  the  alder  branches  are 
full  of  sap,  and  when  the  sap  is  expelled  there  is  a  hole 
smooth  as  the  barrel  of  a  gun. 

"  I'm  going,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  there's  nothing 
more  to  say.  Good-bye." 

She  walked  away  quickly,  and  her  mother  said, 
"  She's  going  with  Pat  Connex."  But  she  had  no 
thought  of  going  to  America  with  him.  It  was  not 
until  she  met  him  a  little  further  on,  at  the  cross  roads, 
that  the  thought  occurred  to  her  that  he  might  like  to 
go  to  America  with  her.  She  called  him,  and  he  came 
to  her,  and  he  looked  a  nice  boy,  but  she  thought  he 
was  better  in  Ireland.  And  the  country  seemed  far 
away,  though  she  was  still  in  it,  and  the  people  too, 
though  she  was  still  among  them. 

"  I'm  going  to  America,  Pat." 

"  You  were  married  yesterday." 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  priest's  doing  and  mother's  and 
I  thought  they  knew  best.  But  I'm  thinking  one  must 
go  one's  way,  and  there's  no  judging  for  one's  self 
here.  That's  why  I'm  going.  You'll  find  some  other 
girl,  Pat." 

"  There's  not  another  girl  like  you  in  the  village. 
We're  a  dead  and  alive  lot.  You  stood  up  to  the 
priest." 

"  I  didn't  stand  up  to  him  enough.  You're  waiting 
for  someone.  Who  are  you  waiting  for?" 

"  I  don't  like  to  tell  you,  Kate." 
80 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

She  pressed  him  to  answer  her,  and  he  told  her  he 
was  waiting  for  the  priest.  His  mother  had  said  he 
must  marry,  and  the  priest  was  coming  to  make  up  a 
marriage  for  him. 

"  Everything's  mother's." 

"  That's  true,  Pat,  and  you'll  give  a  message  for  me. 
Tell  my  mother-in-law  that  I've  gone." 

"  She'll  be  asking  me  questions  and  I'll  be  sore  set 
for  an  answer." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  but  she  left  him  without 
speaking,  and  he  stood  thinking. 

He  had  had  good  times  with  her,  and  all  such  times 
were  ended  for  him  for  ever.  He  was  going  to  be 
married  and  he  did  not  know  to  whom.  Suddenly  he 
remembered  he  had  a  message  to  deliver,  and  he  went 
down  to  the  M 'Shanes'  cabin. 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  M'Shane,"  he  said,  "  it  was  a  bad  day 
for  me  when  she  married  Peter.  But  this  is  a  worse 
one,  for  we've  both  lost  her." 

"  My  poor  boy  will  feel  it  sorely." 

When  Peter  came  in  for  his  dinner  his  mother  said : 
"  Peter,  she's  gone,  she's  gone  to  America,  and  you're 
well  rid  of  her." 

"  Don't  say  that,  mother,  I  am  not  well  rid  of  her, 
for  there's  no  other  woman  in  the  world  for  me  except 
her  that's  gone.  Has  she  gone  with  Pat  Connex?" 

"  No,  he  said  nothing  about  that,  and  it  was  he  who 
brought  the  message." 

"  I've  no  one,  mother,  to  blame  but  myself.  I  was 
drunk  last  night,  and  how  could  she  let  a  drunken 
fellow  like  me  into  her  room." 

He  went  out  to  the  backyard,  and  his  mother  heard 
him  crying  till  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  back  to  work. 
6  "  81 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 


V 

As  he  got  up  to  go  to  work  he  caught  sight  of  Biddy 
M'Hale  coming  up  the  road;  he  rushed  past  her  lest 
she  should  ask  him  what  he  was  crying  about,  and  she 
stood  looking  after  him  for  a  moment,  and  went  into 
the  cabin  to  inquire  what  had  happened. 

"  Sure  she  wouldn't  let  her  husband  sleep  with  her 
last  night,"  said  Mrs.  M'Shane,  "  and  you'll  be  telling 
the  priest  that.  It  will  be  well  he  should  know  it  at 
once." 

Biddy  would  have  liked  to  have  heard  how  the  wed- 
ding party  had  met  Pat  Connex  on  the  road,  and  what 
had  happened  after,  but  the  priest  was  expecting  her, 
and  she  did  not  dare  to  keep  him  waiting  much  longer. 
But  she  was  not  sorry  she  had  been  delayed,  for  the 
priest  only  wanted  to  get  her  money  to  mend  the  walls 
of  the  old  church,  and  she  thought  that  her  best  plan 
would  be  to  keep  him  talking  about  Kate  and  Peter. 
He  was  going  to  America  to-morrow  or  the  day  after, 
and  if  she  could  keep  her  money  till  then  it  would  be 
safe. 

His  front  door  was  open,  he  was  leaning  over  the 
green  paling  that  divided  his  strip  of  garden  from  the 
road,  and  he  looked  very  cross  indeed. 

She  began  at  once : — 

"  Sure,  your  reverence,  there's  terrible  work  going 
on  in  the  village,  and  I  had  to  stop  to  listen  to  Mrs 
M'Shane.  Kate  Kavanagh,  that  was,  has  gone  to 
America,  and  she  shut  her  door  on  him  last  night, 
saying  he  was  drunk." 

82 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  What's  this  you're  telling  me?" 

"If  your  reverence  will  listen  to  me ' 


"  I'm  always  listening  to  you,  Biddy  M'Hale.  Go 
on  with  your  story." 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  fully  understood  what 
had  happened,  but  at  last  all  the  facts  seemed  clear,  and 
he  said : — 

"  I'm  expecting  Pat  Connex." 

Then  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  poor  husband  weep- 
ing in  the  backyard,  and  he  said : — 

"  I  made  up  this  marriage  so  that  she  might  not  go 
away  with  Pat  Connex." 

"  Well,  we've  been  saved  that,"  said  Biddy. 

"  Ned  Kavanagh's  marriage  was  bad  enough,  but 
this  is  worse.  It  is  no  marriage  at  all." 

"  Ah,  your  reverence,  you  musn't  be  taking  it  to 
heart.  If  the  marriage  did  not  turn  out  right  it  was 
the  drink." 

"  Ah,  the  drink — the  drink,"  said  the  priest,  and  he 
declared  that  the  brewer  and  the  distiller  were  the  ruin 
of  Ireland. 

"  That's  true  for  you ;  at  the  same  time  we  musn't 
forget  that  they  have  put  up  many  a  fine  church." 

"  It  would  be  impossible,  I  suppose,  to  prohibit  the 
brewing  of  ale  and  the  distillation  of  spirit."  The 
priest's  brother  was  a  publican  and  had  promised  a 
large  subscription.  "  And  now,  Biddy,  what  are  you 
going  to  give  me  to  make  the  walls  secure.  I  don't 
want  you  all  to  be  killed  while  I  am  away." 

"  There's  no  fear  of  that,  your  reverence ;  a  church 
never  fell  down  on  anyone." 

"  Even  so,  if  it  falls  down  when  nobody's  in  it  where 
are  the  people  to  hear  Mass  ?" 

83 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  Ah,  won't  they  be  going  down  to  hear  Mass  at 
Father  Stafford's?" 

"  If  you  don't  wish  to  give  anything  say  so." 

"  Your  reverence,  amn't  I ?" 

"  We  don't  want  to  hear  about  that  window." 

Biddy  began  to  fear  she  would  have  to  give  him  a 
few  pounds  to  quiet  him.  But,  fortunately,  Pat  Con- 
nex  came  up  the  road,  and  she  thought  she  might 
escape  after  all. 

"  I  hear,  Pat  Connex,  you  were  dancing  with  Kate 
Kavanagh,  I  should  say  Kate  M' Shane,  and  she  went 
away  to  America  this  morning.  Have  you  heard 
that?" 

"  I  have,  your  reverence.  She  passed  me  on  the  road 
this  morning." 

"  And  you  weren't  thinking  you  might  stop  her?" 

"  Stop  her,"  said  Pat.  "  Who  could  stop  Kate  from 
doing  anything  she  wanted  to  do?" 

"  And  now  your  mother  writes  to  me,  Pat  Connex, 
to  ask  if  I  will  get  Lennon's  daughter  for  you." 

"  I  see  your  reverence  has  private  business  with  Pat 
Connex.  I'll  be  going,"  said  Biddy,  and  she  was  many 
yards  down  the  road  before  he  could  say  a  word. 

"  Now,  Biddy  M'Hale,  don't  you  be  going."  But 
Biddy  pretended  not  to  hear  him. 

"  Will  I  be  running  after  her,"  said  Pat,  "  and  bring- 
ing her  back  ?" 

v<  No,  let  her  go.  If  she  doesn't  want  to  help  to 
make  the  walls  safe  I'm  not  going  to  go  on  my  knees 
to  her.  .  .  .  You'll  all  have  to  walk  to  Father  Staf- 
ford's to  hear  Mass.  Have  you  heard  your  mother 
say  what  she's  going  to  give  towards  the  new  church, 
Pat  Connex?" 

84 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  I  think  she  said,  your  reverence,  she  was  going  to 
send  you  ten  pounds." 

"  That's  very  good  of  her,"  and  this  proof  that  a 
public  and  religious  spirit  was  not  yet  dead  in  his 
parish  softened  the  priest's  temper,  and,  thinking  to 
please  him  and  perhaps  escape  a  scolding,  Pat  began 
to  calculate  how  much  Biddy  had  saved. 

"  She  must  be  worth,  I'm  thinking,  close  on  one 
hundred  pounds  to-day."  As  the  priest  did  not  answer, 
he  said,  "  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  was  worth 
another  fifty." 

"  Hardly  as  much  as  that,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Hadn't  her  aunt  the  house  we're  living  in  before 
mother  came  to  Kilmore,  and  they  used  to  have  the 
house  full  of  lodgers  all  the  summer.  It's  true  that 
her  aunt  didn't  pay  her  any  wages,  but  when  she  died 
she  left  her  a  hundred  pounds,  and  she  has  been 
making  money  ever  since." 

This  allusion  to  Biddy's  poultry  reminded  the  priest 
that  he  had  once  asked  Biddy  what  had  put  the  idea  of 
a  poultry  farm  into  her  head,  and  she  had  told  him  that 
when  she  was  taking  up  the  lodgers'  meals  at  her 
aunt's  she  used  to  have  to  stop  and  lean  against  the 
banisters,  so  heavy  were  the  trays. 

"  One  day  I  slipped  and  hurt  myself,  and  I  was 
lying  on  my  back  for  more  than  two  years,  and  all  the 
time  I  could  see  the  fowls  pecking  in  the  yard,  for  my 
bed  was  by  the  window.  I  thought  I  would  like  to 
keep  fowls  when  I  was  older." 

The  priest  remembered  the  old  woman  standing 
before  him  telling  him  of  her  accident,  and  while  listen- 
ing he  had  watched  her,  undecided  whether  she  could 
be  called  a  hunchback.  Her  shoulders  were  higher 

85 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

than  shoulders  usually  are,  she  was  jerked  forward 
from  the  waist,  and  she  had  the  long,  thin  arms,  and 
the  long,  thin  face,  and  the  pathetic  eyes  of  the  hunch- 
back. Perhaps  she  guessed  his  thoughts.  She  said: — 

"  In  those  days  we  used  to  go  blackberrying  with 
the  boys.  We  used  to  run  all  over  the  hills." 

He  did  not  think  she  had  said  anything  else,  but  she 
had  said  the  words  in  such  a  way  that  they  suggested 
a  great  deal — they  suggested  that  she  had  once  been 
very  happy,  and  that  she  had  suffered  very  soon  the 
loss  of  all  her  woman's  hopes.  A  few  weeks,  a  few 
months,  between  her  convalescence  and  her  disappoint- 
ment had  been  all  her  woman's  life.  The  thought  that 
life  is  but  a  little  thing  passed  across  the  priest's  mind, 
and  then  he  looked  at  Pat  Connex  and  wondered  what 
was  to  be  done  with  him.  His  conduct  at  the  wedding 
would  have  to  be  inquired  into,  and  the  marriage  that 
was  being  arranged  would  have  to  be  broken  off  if 
Kate's  flight  could  be  attributed  to  him. 

"  Now,  Pat  Connex,  we  will  go  to  Mrs.  M'Shane. 
I  shall  want  to  hear  her  story." 

"  Sure  what  story  can  she  tell  of  me  ?  Didn't  I  run 
out  of  the  house  away  from  Kate  when  I  saw  what  she 
was  thinking  of  ?  What  more  could  I  do  ?" 

"  If  Mrs.  M'Shane  tells  the  same  story  as  you  do 
we'll  go  to  your  mother's,  and  afterwards  I'll  go  to 
see  Lennon  about  his  daughter." 

Pat's  dancing  with  Kate  and  Kate's  flight  to  America 
had  reached  Lennon's  ears,  and  it  did  not  seem  at  all 
likely  that  he  would  consent  to  give  his  daughter  to 
Pat  Connex,  unless,  indeed,  Pat  Connex  agreed  to 
take  a  much  smaller  dowry  than  his  mother  had  asked 
for. 

86 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

These  new  negotiations,  his  packing,  a  letter  to  the 
Bishop,  and  the  payment  of  bills  fully  occupied  the  last 
two  days,  and  the  priest  did  not  see  Biddy  again  till 
he  was  on  his  way  to  the  station.  She  was  walking  up 
and  down  her  poultry-yard,  telling  her  beads,  followed 
by  her  poultry;  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he 
resisted  the  impulse  to  ask  her  for  a  subscription,  but 
the  driver  said  if  they  stopped  they  would  miss  the 
train. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  priest,  and  he  drove  past  her 
cabin  without  speaking  to  her. 

In  the  bar-rooms  of  New  York,  while  trying  to 
induce  a  recalcitrant  loafer  to  part  with  a  dollar,  he 
remembered  that  he  had  not  met  anyone  so  stubborn 
as  Biddy.  She  had  given  very  little,  and  yet  she 
seemed  to  be  curiously  mixed  up  with  the  building 
of  the  church.  She  was  the  last  person  he  saw  on 
his  way  out,  and,  a  few  months  later,  he  was  struck 
by  the  fact  that  she  was  the  first  parishioner  he  saw 
on  his  return.  As  he  was  driving  home  from  the 
station  in  the  early  morning  whom  should  he  see  but 
Biddy,  telling  her  beads,  followed  by  her  poultry. 
The  scene  was  the  same  except  that  morning  was 
substituted  for  evening.  This  was  the  first  impres- 
sion. On  looking  closer  he  noticed  that  she  was  not 
followed  by  as  many  Plymouth  Rocks  as  on  the  last 
occasion. 

"  She  seems  to  be  going  in  for  Buff  Orpingtons," 
he  said  to  himself. 

"  It's  a  fine  thing  to  see  you  again,  and  your  rever- 
ence is  looking  well.  I  hope  you've  been  lucky  in 
America?" 

"  I  have  brought  home  some  money  anyhow,  and 
87 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

the  church  will  be  built,  and  you  will  tell  your  beads 
under  your  window  one  of  these  days." 

"  Your  reverence  is  very  good  to  me,  and  God  is 
very  good." 

And  she  stood  looking  after  him,  thinking  how 
she  had  brought  him  round  to  her  way  of  thinking. 
She  had  always  known  that  the  Americans  would 
pay  for  the  building,  but  no  one  else  but  herself 
would  be  thinking  of  putting  up  a  beautiful  window 
that  would  do  honour  to  God  and  Kilmore.  And  it 
wasn't  her  fault  if  she  didn't  know  a  good  window 
from  a  bad  one,  as  well  as  the  best  of  them.  And  it 
wasn't  she  who  was  going  to  hand  over  her  money  to 
the  priest  or  his  architect  to  put  up  what  window 
they  liked.  She  had  been  inside  every  church  within 
twenty  miles  of  Kilmore,  and  would  see  that  she  got 
full  value  for  her  money. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  she  called  at  the  priest's 
house  to  tell  him  the  pictures  she  would  like  to  see  in 
the  window,  and  the  colours.  But  the  priest's  servant 
was  not  certain  whether  Biddy  could  see  his  rever- 
ence. 

"  He  has  a  gentleman  with  him." 

"Isn't  it  the  architect  he  has  with  him?  Don't 
you  know  that  it  is  I  who  am  putting  up  the  win- 
dow?" 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  priest;  "show  her  in." 
And  he  drew  forward  a  chair  for  Miss  M'Hale,  and 
introduced  her  to  the  architect.  The  little  man  laid 
his  pencil  aside,  and  this  encouraged  Biddy,  and  she 
began  to  tell  him  of  the  kind  of  window  she  had  been 
thinking  of.  But  she  had  not  told  him  half  the  things 
she  wished  to  have  put  into  the  window  when  he 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

interrupted  her,  and  said  there  would  be  plenty  of 
time  to  consider  what  kind  of  window  should  be  put 
in  when  the  walls  were  finished  and  the  roof  was 
upon  them. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  premature  to  discuss  the 
window,  but  you  shall  choose  the  subjects  you  would 
like  to  see  represented  in  the  window,  and  as  for  the 
colours,  the  architect  and  designer  will  advise  you. 
But  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Biddy,  that  this  gentleman 
says  that  the  four  thousand  pounds  the  Americans 
were  good  enough  to  give  me  will  not  do  much  more 
than  build  the  walls." 

"  They're  waiting  for  me  to  offer  them  my  money, 
but  I  won't  say  a  word,"  Biddy  said  to  herself;  and 
she  sat  fidgetting  with  her  shawl,  coughing  from  time 
to  time,  until  the  priest  lost  his  patience. 

"Well,  Biddy,  we're  very  busy  here,  and  I'm  sure 
you  want  to  get  back  to  your  fowls.  When  the  church 
is  finished  we'll  see  if  we  want  your  window." 

The  priest  had  hoped  to  frighten  her,  but  she  was 
not  the  least  frightened.  Her  faith  in  her  money 
was  abundant ;  she  knew  that  as  long  as  she  had  her 
money  the  priest  would  come  to  her  for  it  on  one 
pretext  or  another,  sooner  or  later.  And  she  was  as 
well  pleased  that  nothing  should  be  settled  at  present, 
for  she  was  not  quite  decided  whether  she  would  like 
to  see  Christ  sitting  in  judgment,  or  Christ  crowning 
His  Virgin  Mother;  and  during  the  next  six  months 
she  pondered  on  the  pictures  and  the  colours,  and 
gradually  the  design  grew  clearer. 

And  every  morning,  as  soon  as  she  had  fed  her 
chickens,  she  went  up  to  Kilmore  to  watch  the  work- 
men. She  was  there  when  the  first  spadeful  of  earth 

89 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

was  thrown  up,  and  as  soon  as  the  walls  showed 
above  the  ground  she  began  to  ask  the  workmen  how 
long  it  would  take  them  to  reach  the  windows,  and  if 
a  workman  put  down  his  trowel  and  wandered  from 
his  work  she  would  tell  him  it  was  God  he  was  cheat- 
ing; and  later  on,  when  the  priest's  money  began  to 
come  to  an  end  he  could  not  pay  the  workmen  full 
wages,  she  told  them  they  were  working  for  God's  Own 
House,  and  that  He  would  reward  them  in  the  next 
world. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  a  mason.  "  If  you  want 
the  church  built  why  don't  you  give  the  priest  the 
money  you're  saving,  and  let  him  pay  us?" 

"  Keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  Pat  Murphy. 
It  isn't  for  myself  I  am  keeping  it  back.  Isn't  it  all 
going  to  be  spent?" 

The  walls  were  now  built,  and  amid  the  clatter  of 
the  slater's  hammers  Biddy  began  to  tell  the  plasterers 
of  the  beautiful  pictures  that  would  be  seen  in  her 
window;  and  she  gabbled  on,  mixing  up  her  memo- 
ries of  the  different  windows  she  had  seen,  until  at 
last  her  chatter  grew  wearisome,  and  they  threw  bits 
of  mortar,  laughing  at  her  for  a  crazy  old  woman,  or 
the  priest  would  suddenly  come  upon  them,  and  they 
would  scatter  in  all  directions,  leaving  him  with 
Biddy. 

"  What  were  they  saying  to  you,  Biddy  ?" 

"  They  were  saying,  your  reverence,  that  America 
is  a  great  place." 

"  You  spend  a  great  deal  of  your  time  here,  Biddy, 
and  I  suppose  you  are  beginning  to  see  that  it  takes 
a  long  time  to  build  a  church.  Now  you  are  not 
listening  to  what  I  am  saying.  You  are  thinking 

90 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

about  your  window ;  but  you  must  have  a  house  be- 
fore you  can  have  a  window." 

"  I  know  that  very  well,  your  reverence ;  but,  you 
see,  God  has  given  us  the  house." 

"  God's  House  consists  of  little  more  than  walls 
and  a  roof." 

"  Indeed  it  does,  your  reverence ;  and  amn't  I 
saving  up  all  my  money  for  the  window?" 

"  But,  my  good  Biddy,  there  is  hardly  any  plaster- 
ing done  yet.  The  laths  have  come  in,  and  there 
isn't  sufficient  to  fill  that  end  of  the  church,  and  I 
have  no  more  money." 

"  Won't  you  reverence  be  getting  the  rest  of  the 
money  in  America?  And  I  am  thinking  a  bazaar 
would  be  a  good  thing.  Wouldn't  we  all  be  making 
scapulars,  and  your  reverence  might  get  medals  that 
the  Pope  had  blessed." 

Eventually  he  drove  her  out  of  the  church  with  his 
umbrella.  But  as  his  anger  cooled  he  began  to  think 
that  perhaps  Biddy  was  right — a  bazaar  might  be  a 
good  thing,  and  a  distribution  of  medals  and  scapulars 
might  induce  his  workmen  to  do  some  overtime.  He 
went  to  Dublin  to  talk  over  this  matter  with  some 
pious  Catholics,  and  an  old  lady  wrote  a  cheque  for 
fifty  pounds,  two  or  three  others  subscribed  smaller 
sums,  and  the  plasterers  were  busy  all  next  week.  But 
these  subscriptions  did  not  go  nearly  as  far  towards 
completing  the  work  as  he  had  expected.  The  archi- 
tect had  led  him  astray,  and  he  looked  around  the  vast 
barn  that  he  had  built  and  despaired.  It  seemed  to 
him  it  would  never  be  finished  in  his  lifetime.  A  few 
weeks  after  he  was  again  running  short  of  money,  and 
he  was  speaking  to  his  workmen  one  Saturday  after- 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

noon,  telling  them  how  they  could  obtain  a  plenary 
indulgence  by  subscribing  so  much  towards  the  build- 
ing of  the  church,  and  by  going  to  Confession  and 
Communion  on  the  first  Sunday  of  the  month,  and  if 
they  could  not  afford  the  money  they  could  give  their 
work.  He  was  telling  them  how  much  could  be  done 
if  every  workman  were  to  do  each  day  an  hour  of 
overtime,  when  Biddy  suddenly  appeared,  and,  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  men,  she  raised  up  her  hands  and 
said  they  should  not  pass  her  until  they  had  pledged 
themselves  to  come  to  work  on  Monday. 

"  But  haven't  we  got  our  wives  and  little  ones,  and 
haven't  we  to  think  of  them?"  said  a  workman. 

"  Ah,  one  can  live  on  very  little  when  one  is  doing 
the  work  of  God,"  said  Biddy. 

The  man  called  her  a  vain  old  woman,  who  was 
starving  herself  so  that  she  might  put  up  a  window, 
and  they  pushed  her  aside  and  went  away,  saying 
they  had  to  think  of  their  wives  and  children. 

The  priest  turned  upon  her  angrily  and  asked  her 
what  she  meant  by  interfering  between  him  and  his 
workmen. 

"  Now,  don't  be  angry  with  me,  your  reverence.  I 
will  say  a  prayer,  and  you  will  say  a  word  or  two  in 
your  sermon  to-morrow." 

And  he  spoke  in  his  sermon  of  the  disgrace  it 
would  be  to  Kilmore  if  the  church  remained  unfin- 
ished. The  news  would  go  over  to  America,  and 
what  priest  would  be  ever  able  to  get  money  there 
again  to  build  a  church? 

"  Do  you  think  a  priest  likes  to  go  about  the  bar- 
rooms asking  for  dollars  and  half-dollars?  Would 
you  make  his  task  more  unpleasant?  If  I  have  to  go 

92 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

to  America  again,  what  answer  shall  I  make  if  they 
say  to  me :  '  Well,  didn't  your  workmen  leave  you 
at  Kilmore?  They  don't  want  churches  at  Kilmore. 
Why  should  we  give  you  money  for  a  church?'  " 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  talking  that  night  in 
Michael  Dunne's,  and  they  were  all  of  one  mind, 
that  it  would  be  a  disgrace  to  Kilmore  if  the  church 
were  not  finished ;  but  no  one  could  see  that  he  could 
work  for  less  wages  than  he  was  in  the  habit  of  get- 
ting. As  the  evening  wore  on  the  question  of  indul- 
gences was  raised,  and  Ned  Kavanagh  said : — 

"  The  devil  a  bit  of  use  going  against  the  priest, 
and  the  indulgences  will  do  us  no  harm." 

"  The  devil  a  bit,  but  maybe  a  great  deal  of  good," 
said  Peter  M'Shane,  and  an  hour  later  they  were 
staggering  down  the  road  swearing  they  would  stand 
by  the  priest  till  the  death. 

But  on  Monday  morning  nearly  all  were  in  their 
beds;  only  half  a  dozen  came  to  the  work,  and  the 
priest  sent  them  away,  except  one  plasterer.  There 
was  one  plasterer  who,  he  thought,  could  stand  on 
the  scaffold. 

"  If  I  were  to  fall  I'd  go  straight  to  Heaven,"  the 
plasterer  said,  and  he  stood  so  near  the  edge,  and  his 
knees  seemed  so  weak  under  him,  that  Biddy  thought 
he  was  going  to  fall. 

"  It  would  be  better  for  you  to  finish  what  you  are 
doing;  the  Holy  Virgin  will  be  more  thankful  to 
you." 

"  Aye,  maybe  she  would,"  he  said,  and  he  continued 
his  work  mechanically. 

He  was  working  at  the  clustered  columns  about 
the  window  Biddy  had  chosen  for  her  stained  glass, 

93 


and  she  did  not  take  her  eyes  off  him.  The  priest 
returned  a  little  before  twelve  o'clock,  as  the  plasterer 
was  going  to  his  dinner,  and  he  asked  him  if  he  were 
feeling  better. 

"  I'm  all  right,  your  reverence,  and  it  won't  occur 
again." 

"  I  hope  he  won't  go  down  to  Michael  Dunne's 
during  his  dinner  hour,"  he  said  to  Biddy.  "  If  you 
see  any  further  sign  of  drink  upon  him  when  he  comes 
back  you  must  tell  me." 

"  He  is  safe  enough,  your  reverence.  Wasn't  he 
telling  me  while  your  reverence  was  having  your 
breakfast  that  if  he  fell  down  he  would  go  straight  to 
Heaven,  and  he  opened  his  shirt  and  showed  me  he 
was  wearing  the  scapular  of  the  Holy  Virgin." 

And  Biddy  began  to  advocate  a  sale  of  scapulars. 

"  A  sale  of  scapulars  will  not  finish  my  church. 
You're  all  a  miserly  lot  here,  you  want  everything 
done  for  you." 

"  Weren't  you  telling  me,  your  reverence,  that  a 
pious  lady  in  Dublin " 

"  The  work  is  at  a  stand-still.  If  I  were  to  go  to 
America  to-morrow  it  would  be  no  use  unless  I  could 
tell  them  it  was  progressing." 

"  Sure  they  don't  ask  any  questions  in  America, 
they  just  give  their  money." 

"  If  they  do,  that's  more  than  you're  doing  at  home. 
I  want  to  know,  Biddy,  what  you  are  going  to  do  for 
this  church.  You're  always  talking  about  it;  you're 
always  here  and  you  have  given  less  than  any  one 
else." 

"  Didn't  I  offer  your  reverence  a  sovereign  once 
since  I  gave  you  the  five  pounds  ?" 

94 


SOME  PARISHIONERS 

"  You  don't  seem  to  understand,  Biddy,  that  you 
can't  put  up  your  window  until  the  plastering  is  fin- 
ished." 

"  I  think  I  understand  that  well  enough,  but  the 
church  will  be  finished." 

"  How  will  it  be  finished  ?  When  will  it  be  fin- 
ished?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  nothing  was  heard  in  the 
still  church  but  her  irritating  little  cough. 

"  You're  very  obstinate.  Well,  tell  me  where  you 
would  like  to  have  your  window." 

"  It  is  there  I  shall  be  kneeling,  and  if  you  will  let 
me  put  my  window  there  I  shall  see  it  when  I  look 
up  from  my  beads.  I  should  like  to  see  the  Virgin 
and  I  should  like  to  see  St.  John  with  her.  And 
don't  you  think,  your  reverence,  we  might  have  St. 
Joseph  as  well.  Our  Lord  would  have  to  be  in  the 
Virgin's  arms,  and  I  think,  your  reverence,  I  would 
like  Our  Lord  coming  down  to  judge  us,  and  I 
should  like  to  have  Him  on  His  throne  on  the  day  of 
Judgment  up  at  the  top  of  the  window." 

"  I  can  see  you've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about 
this  window,"  the  priest  said. 

She  began  again  and  the  priest  heard  the  names 
of  the  different  saints  she  would  like  to  see  in  stained 
glass,  and  he  let  her  prattle  on.  But  his  temper 
boiled  up  suddenly  and  he  said : — 

"  You'd  go  on  like  this  till  midnight  if  I  let 
you.  Now,  Biddy  M'Hale,  you've  been  here  all  the 
morning  delaying  my  workmen.  Go  home  to  your 
fowls." 

And  she  ran  away  shrinking  like  a  dog,  and  the 
priest  walked  up  and  down  the  unfinished  church. 

95 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  She  tries  my  temper  more  than  anyone  I  ever  met," 
he  said  to  himself.  At  that  moment  he  heard  some 
loose  boards  clanking,  and  thinking  it  was  the  old 
woman  coming  back  he  looked  'round,  his  eyes 
flaming.  But  the  intruder  was  a  short  and  square-set 
man,  of  the  type  that  one  sees  in  Germany,  and  he 
introduced  himself  as  an  agent  of  a  firm  of  stained 
glass  manufacturers.  He  told  Father  Maguire  they 
had  heard  in  Germany  of  the  beautiful  church  he  was 
building.  "  I  met  an  old  woman  on  the  road,  and  she 
told  me  that  I  would  find  you  in  the  church  consider- 
ing the  best  place  for  the  window  she  was  going  to 
put  up.  She  looks  very  poor." 

"  She's  not  as  poor  as  she  looks ;  she's  been  saving 
money  all  her  life  for  this  window.  Her  window  is 
her  one  idea,  arid,  like  people  of  one  idea,  she's  apt  to 
become  a  little  tiresome." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand." 

He  began  telling  the  story,  and  seeing  that  the 
German  was  interested  in  the  old  woman  he  began 
to  acquire  an  interest  in  her  himself,  an  unpremedi- 
tated interest;  he  had  not  suspected  that  Biddy  was 
so  interesting.  The  German  said  she  reminded  him 
of  the  quaint  sculpture  of  Nuremburg,  and  her  char- 
acter reminded  him  of  one  of  the  German  saints,  and 
talking  of  Biddy  and  mediaevalism  and  Gothic  art 
and  stained  glass  the  priest  and  the  agent  for  the 
manufacture  of  stained  glass  in  Munich  walked  up 
and  down  the  unfinished  church  until  the  return  of 
the  plasterer  reminded  the  priest  of  his  embarrass- 
ments, and  he  took  the  German  into  his  confidence. 

"  These  embarrassments  always  occur,"  said  the 
agent,  "but  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  unfinished 

96 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

church  in  Ireland ;  if  you  were  to  let  her  put  up  the 
window  subscriptions  would  pour  in." 

"How's  that?" 

"  A  paragraph  in  the  newspaper  describing  the 
window,  the  gift  of  a  local  saint.  I  think  you  told 
me  her  name  was  M'Hale,  and  that  she  lives  in  the 
village." 

"Yes,  you  pass  her  house  on  the  way  to  the  sta- 
tion." 

The  German  took  his  leave  abruptly,  and  when  he 
was  half-way  down  the  hill  he  asked  some  children 
to  direct  him. 

"  Is  it  Biddy  M'Hale,  that  has  all  the  hins,  and  is 
going  to  put  up  a  window  in  the  church,  that  you're 
wanting  ?" 

The  German  said  that  that  was  the  woman  he 
wanted,  and  the  eldest  child  said : — 

"  You  will  see  her  feeding  her  chickens,  and  you 
must  call  to  her  over  the  hedge." 

And  he  did  as  he  was  bidden. 

"  Madam  .  .  .  the  priest  has  sent  me  to  show  you 
some  designs  for  a  stained  glass  window." 

No  one  had  ever  addressed  Biddy  as  Madam  before. 
She  hastened  to  let  him  into  the  house,  and  wiped 
the  table  clean  so  that  he  could  spread  the  designs 
upon  it.  The  first  designs  he  showed  here  were  the 
four  Evangelists,  but  he  would  like  a  woman's  present 
to  her  church  to  be  in  a  somewhat  lighter  style,  and 
he  showed  her  a  picture  of  St.  Cecilia  that  fascinated 
her  for  a  time;  and  then  he  suggested  that  a  group 
of  figures  would  look  handsomer  than  a  single  figure. 
But  she  could  not  put  aside  the  idea  of  the  window 
that  had  grown  up  in  her  mind,  and  after  some  at- 
7  97 


tempts  to  persuade  her  to  accept  a  design  they  had  in 
stock  he  had  to  give  way  and  listen. 

At  the  top  of  the  picture,  where  the  window  nar- 
rowed to  a  point,  Our  Lord  sat  dressed  in  white  on 
a  throne,  placing  a  golden  crown  on  the  head  of  the 
Virgin  kneeling  before  him.  About  him  were  the 
women  who  had  loved  him,  and  the  old  woman  said 
she  was  sorry  she  was  not  a  nun,  and  hoped  that 
Christ  would  not  think  less  of  her.  As  far  as  mortal 
sin  was  concerned  she  could  say  she  had  never  com- 
mitted one.  At  the  bottom  of  the  window  there  were 
suffering  souls.  The  cauldrons  that  Biddy  wished  to 
see  them  in,  the  agent  said,  would  be  difficult  to  intro- 
duce— the  suffering  of  the  souls  could  be  artistically 
indicated  by  flames. 

"  I  shall  have  great  joy,"  she  said,  "  seeing  the 
blessed  women  standing  about  our  Divine  Lord,  sing- 
ing hymns  in  His  praise,  and  the  sight  of  sinners 
broiling  will  make  me  be  sorrowful." 

She  insisted  on  telling  the  German  of  the  different 
churches  she  had  visited,  and  the  windows  she  had 
seen,  and  she  did  not  notice  that  he  was  turning  over 
his  designs  and  referring  to  his  note  book  while  she 
was  talking.  Suddenly  he  said: — 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  think  we  have  got  the  greater 
part  of  the  window  you  wish  for  in  stock,  and  the 
rest  can  be  easily  made  up.  Now  the  only  question 
that  remains  is  the  question  of  the  colours  you  care 
about." 

"  I  have  always  thought  there's  no  colour  like  blue. 
I'd  like  the  Virgin  to  wear  a  blue  cloak." 

She  did  not  know  why  she  had  chosen  that  colour, 
but  the  agent  told  her  that  she  was  quite  right;  blue 

98 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

signified  chastity;  and  when  the  German  had  gone 
she  sat  thinking  of  the  Virgin  and  her  cloak.  The 
Mmorcas,  and  Buff  Orpingtons,  and  Plymouth  Rocks 
came  through  the  door  cackling,  and  while  feeding 
them  she  sat,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  beautiful  evening 
sky,  wondering  if  the  blue  in  the  picture  would  be  as 
pale,  or  if  it  would  be  a  deeper  blue. 

She  remembered  suddenly  that  she  used  to  wear  a 
blue  ribbon  when  she  went  blackberrying  among  the 
hills;  she  found  it  in  an  old  box  and  tied  it  round 
her  neck.  The  moment  she  put  it  on  her  memory 
was  as  if  lighted  up  with  the  memories  of  the  saints 
and  the  miracles  they  had  performed,  and  she  went 
to  Father  Maguire  to  tell  him  of  the  miracle.  That 
the  agent  should  have  in  stock  the  very  window  she 
had  imagined  seemed  a  miracle,  and  she  was  encour- 
aged to  think  some  miraculous  thing  had  happened 
when  the  priest  asked  her  to  tell  him  exactly  what 
her  window  was  like.  She  had  often  told  him  before 
but  he  had  never  listened  to  her.  But  now  he  recog- 
nised her  window  as  an  adaptation  of  Fra  Angelico's 
picture,  and  he  told  her  how  the  saint  had  wandered 
from  monastery  to  monastery  painting  pictures  on 
the  walls.  More  he  could  not  tell  her,  but  he  prom- 
ised to  procure  a  small  biography  of  the  saint.  She 
received  the  book  a  few  days  after,  and  as  she  turned 
over  the  leaves  she  heard  the  children  coming  home 
from  school,  and  she  took  the  book  out  to  them,  for 
her  sight  was  failing,  and  they  read  bits  of  it  aloud, 
and  she  frightened  them  by  dropping  on  her  knees 
and  crying  out  that  God  had  been  very  good  to  her. 

She  wandered  over  the  country  visiting  churches, 
returning  to  Kilmore  suddenly.  She  was  seen  as 

99 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

usual  at  sunrise  and  at  sunset  feeding  her  poultry, 
and  then  she  went  away  again,  and  the  next  time  she 
was  heard  of  was  in  a  church  near  Dublin  celebrated 
for  its  stained  glass.  A  few  days  after  Ned  Kavanagh 
met  her  hurrying  up  the  road  from  the  station,  and 
she  told  him  she  had  just  received  a  letter  from  the 
Munich  agent  saying  he  had  forwarded  her  window. 
It  was  to  arrive  to-morrow. 

It  was  expected  some  time  about  mid-day,  but 
Biddy's  patience  was  exhausted  long  before,  and  she 
walked  a  great  part  of  the  way  to  Dublin  to  meet  the 
dray.  She  returned  with  it,  walking  with  the  dray- 
men, but  within  three  miles  of  Kilmore  she  was  so 
tired  that  they  had  to  put  her  on  the  top  of  the  boxes, 
and  a  cheer  went  up  from  the  villagers  when  she  was 
lifted  down.  She  called  to  the  workmen  to  be  careful 
in  unpacking  the  glass ;  and  when  they  were  putting 
it  up  she  went  down  on  her  knees  and  prayed  that 
no  accident  might  happen. 

At  sunset  the  church  had  to  be  closed,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  she  was  persuaded  to  leave  it. 
Next  morning  at  sunrise  she  was  knocking  at  the  door 
of  the  woman  who  was  charged  with  the  cleaning  of 
the  church,  asking  for  the  key. 

And  from  that  day  she  was  hardly  ever  out  of  the 
church;  the  charwoman  began  to  complain  that  she 
could  not  get  on  with  her  work,  and  she  was  telling 
the  priest  that  Biddy  was  always  at  her  elbow,  asking 
her  to  come  to  her  window,  saying  she  would  show 
her  things  she  had  not  seen  before,  when  their  con- 
versation was  interrupted  by  Biddy.  She  seemed  a 
little  astray,  a  little  exalted,  and  Father  Maguire 
watched  her  as  she  knelt  with  uplifted  face,  telling 

100 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

her  beads.  He  noticed  that  her  fingers  very  soon 
ceased  to  move;  and  that  she  held  the  same  bead  a 
long  time  between  her  fingers.  Minutes  passed,  but 
her  lips  did  not  move ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  panes 
and  her  look  was  so  enraptured  that  he  began  to 
wonder  if  Paradise  were  being  revealed  to  her. 

And  while,  the  priest  wondered,  Biddy  listened  to 
music  inconceivably  tender.  She  had  been  awakened 
from  her  prayers  by  the  sound  of  a  harp  string 
touched  very  gently;  and  the  note  had  floated  down 
like  a  flower,  and  all  the  vibrations  were  not  dead 
when  the  same  note  floated  down  the  aisles  once 
more.  Biddy  listened,  anxious  to  hear  it  a  third  time. 
Once  more  she  heard  it,  and  the  third  time  she  saw 
the  saint's  fingers  moving  over  the  strings;  and  she 
played  a  little  tune  of  six  notes.  And  it  was  at  the 
end  of  the  second  playing  of  the  tune  that  the  priest 
touched  Biddy  on  the  shoulder.  She  looked  up  and 
it  was  a  long  while  before  she  saw  him,  and  she  was 
greatly  grieved  that  she  had  been  awakened  from  her 
dream.  She  said  it  was  a  dream  because  her  happi- 
ness had  been  so  great;  and  she  stood  looking  at  the 
priest,  fain,  but  unable,  to  tell  how  she  had  been  borne 
beyond  her  usual  life,  that  her  whole  being  had  an- 
swered to  the  music  the  saint  played,  and  looking  at 
him,  she  wondered  what  would  have  happened  if  he 
had  not  awakened  her. 

Next  day  was  Sunday,  and  she  was  in  the  church 
at  sunrise  listening  for  the  music.  But  she  heard 
and  saw  nothing  until  the  priest  had  reached  the 
middle  of  the  Mass.  The  acolyte  had  rung  the  bell 
to  prepare  the  people  for  the  Elevation,  and  it  was 
then  that  she  heard  a  faint  low  sound  that  the  light 

101 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

wire  emitted  when  the  saint  touched  her  harp,  and 
she  noticed  that  it  was  the  same  saint  that  had  played 
yesterday,  the  tall  saint  with  the  long  fair  hair  who 
stood  apart  from  the  others,  looking  more  intently 
at  Our  Blessed  Lord  than  the  others.  She  touched 
her  harp  again  and  the  note  vibrated  for  a  long 
while,  and  when  the  last  vibrations  died  she  touched 
the  string  again.  The  note  was  sweet  and  languid 
and  intense,  and  it  pierced  to  the  very  core  of  Biddy. 
The  saint's  hand  passed  over  the  strings,  producing 
faint  exquisite  sounds,  so  faint  that  Biddy  felt  no 
surprise  they  were  not  heard  by  anyone  else;  it  was 
only  by  listening  intently  that  she  could  hear  them. 
Yesterday's  little  tune  appeared  again,  a  little  tune 
of  six  notes,  and  it  seemed  to  Biddy  even  more  ex- 
quisite than  it  had  seemed  when  she  first  heard  it. 
The  only  difference  between  to-day  and  yesterday  was, 
that  to-day  all  the  saints  struck  their  harps,  and  after 
playing  for  some  time  the  music  grew  white  like  snow 
and  remote  as  star-fire,  and  yet  Biddy  heard  it  more 
clearly  than  she  had  heard  anything  before,  and  she 
saw  Our  Lord  more  clearly  than  she  had  ever  seen 
anybody  else.  She  saw  Him  look  up  when  He  had 
placed  the  crown  on  His  Mother's  head;  she  heard 
Him  sing  a  few  notes,  and  then  the  saints  began  to 
sing.  The  window  filled  up  with  song  and  colour,  and 
all  along  the  window  there  was  a  continual  trans- 
mutation of  colour  and  song.  The  figures  grew  taller, 
and  they  breathed  extraordinary  life.  It  sang  like 
a  song  within  them,  and  it  flowed  about  them  and 
out  of  them  in  a  sort  of  pearl-coloured  mist.  The 
vision  clove  the  church  along  and  across,  and  through 
it  she  could  see  the  priest  saying  his  Mass,  and  when 

102 


he  raised  the  Host  above  his  head,  Biddy  saw  Our 
Lord  look  at  her,  and  His  eyes  brightened  as  if  with 
love  of  her.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  saints 
that  sang  His  praises  so  beautifully,  and  when  He 
bent  towards  her  and  she  felt  His  presence  about  her, 
she  cried  out: — 

"  He  is  coming  to  take  me  in  His  arms !" 
And  it  was  then  that  Biddy  fell  out  of  her  place 
and  lay  at  length  on  the  floor  of  the  church,  pale  as 
a  dead  woman.  The  clerk  went  to  her,  but  he  could 
not  carry  her  out;  she  lay  rigid  as  one  who  had  been 
dead  a  long  while  and  she  muttered,  "  He  is  coming 
to  put  the  gold  crown  on  my  head."  The  clerk  moved 
away,  and  she  swooned  again. 

Her  return  to  her  ordinary  perceptions  was  slow 
and  painful.  The  people  had  left  long  ago,  and  she 
tottered  out  of  the  empty  church  and  followed  the 
road  to  her  cabin  without  seeing  it  or  the  people 
whom  she  met  on  the  road.  At  last  a  woman  took 
her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  into  her  cabin,  and  spoke 
to  her.  She  could  not  answer  at  first,  but  she  awoke 
gradually,  and  she  began  to  remember  that  she  had 
heard  music  in  the  window  and  that  Our  Lord  had 
sung  to  her.  The  neighbour  left  her  babbling.  She 
began  to  feed  her  chickens,  and  was  glad  when  she 
had  fed  them.  She  wanted  to  think  of  the  great  and 
wonderful  sights  she  had  seen.  She  could  not  par- 
ticularise, preferring  to  remember  her  vision  as  a 
whole,  unwilling  to  separate  the  music  from  the  colour, 
or  the  colour  and  the  music  from  the  adoration  of 
the  saints. 

As  the  days  went  by  her  life  seemed  to  pass  more 
and  more  out  of  the  life  of  the  ordinary  day.     She 

103 


SOME  PARISHIONERS 

seemed  to  live,  as  it  were,  on  the  last  verge  of  human 
life;  the  mortal  and  the  immortal  mingled;  she  felt 
she  had  been  always  conscious  of  the  immortal,  and 
that  nothing  had  happened  except  the  withdrawing 
of  a  veil.  The  memory  of  her  vision  was  still  intense 
in  her,  but  she  wished  to  renew  it;  and  waited  next 
Sunday  breathless  with  anticipation.  The  vision  be- 
gan at  the  same  moment,  the  signal  was  the  same  as 
before;  the  note  from  the  harp  string  floated  dowrt 
the  aisles  and  when  it  had  been  repeated  three  times 
the  saintly  fingers  moved  over  the  strings,  and  she 
heard  the  beautiful  little  tune. 

Every  eye  was  upon  her,  and  forgetful  of  the  fact 
that  the  priest  was  celebrating  Mass,  they  said,  "  Look, 
she  hears  the  saints  singing  about  her.  She  sees 
Christ  coming."  The  priest  heard  Biddy  cry  out 
"  Christ  is  coming,"  and  she  fell  prone  and  none  dared 
to  raise  her  up,  and  she  lay  there  till  the  Mass  was 
finished.  When  the  priest  left  the  altar  she  was  still 
lying  at  length,  and  the  people  were  about  her;  and 
knowing  how  much  she  would  feel  the  slightest  re- 
proof, he  did  not  say  a  word  that  would  throw  doubt 
on  her  statement.  He  did  not  like  to  impugn  a  popular 
belief,  but  he  felt  obliged  to  exercise  clerical  control. 

"  Now,  Biddy,  I  know  you  are  a  very  pious  woman, 
but  I  cannot  allow  you  to  interrupt  the  Mass." 

"  If  the  Lord  comes  to  me  am  I  not  to  receive  Him, 
your  reverence?" 

"  In  the  first  place  I  object  to  your  dress ;  you  are 
not  properly  dressed." 

She  wore  a  bright  blue  cloak,  she  seemed  to  wear 
hardly  anything  else,  and  tresses  of  dirty  hair  hung 
over  her  shoulders. 

104 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  The  Lord  has  not  said  anything  to  me  about  my 
dress,  your  reverence,  and  He  put  His  gold  crown  on 
my  head  to-day." 

"  Biddy,  is  all  this  true  ?" 

"  As  true  as  you're  standing  there." 

"  I  am  not  asking  you  if  your  visions  are  true.  I 
have  my  opinion  about  that.  I  am  asking  if  they  are 
true  to  you." 

"  True  to  me,  your  reverence  ?  I  don't  rightly  un- 
derstand." 

"  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  Our  Lord  put  a  gold 
crown  on  your  head  to-day." 

"  To  be  sure  He  did,  your  reverence." 

"If  He  did,  where  is  it?" 

"Where  is  it,  your  reverence?  It  is  with  Him, 
to  be  sure.  He  wouldn't  be  leaving  it  on  my  head 
and  me  walking  about  the  parish — that  would  not  be 
reasonable  at  all,  I  am  thinking.  He  doesn't  want  me 
to  be  robbed." 

"  There  is  no  one  in  the  parish  who  would  rob  you." 

"  Maybe  some  one  would  come  out  of  another  parish, 
if  I  was  walking  about  with  a  gold  crown  on  my  head. 
And  such  a  crown  as  He  put  upon  it ! — I  am  sorry  you 
did  not  see  it,  but  your  reverence  was  saying  the  holy 
Mass  at  the  time." 

And  she  fell  on  her  knees  and  clung  to  his  cassock. 

"  And  you  saw  the  crown,  Biddy  ?" 

"  I  had  it  on  my  head,  your  reverence." 

"  And  you  heard  the  saints  singing  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  they  were  singing," 
and  she  began  crooning.  "  Something  like  that,  your 
reverence.  You  don't  believe  me,  but  we  have  only 
our  ears  and  our  eyes  to  guide  us." 

105 


SOME  PARISHIONERS 

"  I  don't  say  I  don't  believe  you,  Biddy,  but  you 
may  be  deceived." 

"  Sorra  deceiving,  your  reverence,  or  I've  been  de- 
ceived all  my  life.  And  now,  your  reverence,  if  you 
have  no  more  business  with  me  I  will  go,  for  they  are 
waiting  in  the  chapel  yard  to  hear  me  tell  them  about 
the  crown  that  was  put  upon  my  head." 

"  Well,  Biddy,  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  can- 
not have  you  interrupting  the  Mass.  I  cannot  permit 
it.  The  visions  may  be  true,  or  not  true,  but  you  must 
not  interrupt  the  Mass.  Do  you  hear  me?" 

The  acolyte  had  opened  the  door  of  the  sacristy, 
she  slipped  through  it,  and  the  priest  took  off  his 
cassock.  As  he  did  so,  he  noticed  that  the  acolytes 
were  anxious  to  get  out;  they  were  at  the  window 
watching,  and  when  the  priest  looked  out  of  the  window 
he  saw  the  people  gathered  about  Biddy,  and  could  see 
she  had  obtained  an  extraordinary  hold  on  the  popular 
imagination ;  no  one  noticed  him  when  he  came  out 
of  the  sacristy;  they  were  listening  to  Biddy,  and  he 
stood  unnoticed  amid  the  crowd  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  She's  out  of  her  mind,"  he  said.  "  She's  as  good 
as  mad.  What  did  she  tell  me — that  Our  Lord  put 
a  crown  on  her  head." 

It  was  difficult  to  know  what  to  do.  News  of  her 
piety  had  reached  Dublin.  People  had  been  down  to 
Kilmore  to  see  her  and  had  given  subscriptions,  and 
he  understood  that  Biddy  had  enabled  him  to  furnish 
his  church  with  varnished  pews  and  holy  pictures.  A 
pious  Catholic  lady  had  sent  him  two  fine  statues  of 
Our  Lady  and  St.  Joseph.  St.  Joseph  was  in  a  purple 
cloak  and  Our  Lady  wore  a  blue  cloak,  and  there  were 
gold  stars  upon  it.  He  had  placed  these  two  statues  on 

106 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

the  two  side  altars.  But  there  were  many  things  he 
wanted  for  his  church,  and  he  could  only  get  them 
through  Biddy.  It  was,  therefore,  his  interest  to  let 
her  remain  in  Kilmore,  only  she  could  not  be  allowed 
to  interrupt  the  Mass,  and  he  felt  that  he  must  be 
allowed  to  pass  in  and  out  of  his  church  without  having 
to  put  up  with  extravagant  salutations. 

He  was  going  home  to  his  breakfast  and  a  young 
man  extremely  interested  in  ecclesiastical  art  was 
coming  to  breakfast  with  him.  The  young  man  had  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  Walter  Pater  and  Chartres 
Cathedral,  and  Father  Maguire  feared  he  was  cutting 
but  a  very  poor  figure  in  the  eyes  of  this  young  man, 
for  he  could  not  keep  his  thoughts  on  what  the  young 
man  was  saying,  he  was  thinking  of  Biddy ;  he  hardly 
thought  of  anything  else  but  her  now  ;  she  was  absorb- 
ing the  mind  of  his  entire  parish,  she  interrupted  the 
Mass,  he  could  not  go  into  his  church  without  being 
accosted  by  this  absurd  old  woman,  and  this  young 
man,  a  highly  cultivated  young  man,  who  had  just  come 
from  Italy,  and  who  took  the  highest  interest  in  archi- 
tecture, would  not  be  able  to  see  his  church  in  peace. 
As  soon  as  they  entered  it  they  would  be  accosted  by 
this  old  woman;  she  would  follow  them  about  asking 
them  to  look  at  her  window,  telling  them  her  visions, 
which  might  or  might  not  be  true.  She  had  a  knack 
of  hiding  herself — he  often  came  upon  her  suddenly 
behind  the  pillars,  and  sometimes  he  found  her  in  the 
confessional.  As  soon  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  he 
began  to  look  for  her,  and  not  finding  her  in  any  likely 
place,  his  fears  subsided,  and  he  called  the  young  man's 
attention  to  the  altar  that  had  been  specially  designed 
for  his  church.  And  the  young  man  had  begun  to 

107 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

tell  the  priest  of  the  altars  he  had  seen  that  Spring  in 
Italy,  when  suddenly  he  uttered  a  cry,  he  had  sud- 
denly felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Your  honour  will  be  well  rewarded  if  you  will  come 
to  my  window.  Now  why  should  I  tell  you  a  lie,  your 
reverence  ?" 

She  threw  herself  at  the  priest's  feet  and  besought 
him  to  believe  that  the  saints  had  been  with  her,  and 
that  every  word  she  was  speaking  was  the  truth. 

"  Biddy,  if  you  don't  go  away  at  once  I  will  not 
allow  you  inside  the  church  to-morrow." 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  priest,  surprised  at 
his  sternness,  and  the  priest  said : — 

"  She  has  become  a  great  trial  to  us  at  Kilmore. 
Come  aside  and  I  will  tell  you  about  her." 

And  when  the  priest  had  told  the  young  man  about 
the  window  the  young  man  asked  if  Biddy  would  have 
to  be  sent  away. 

"  I  hope  not,  for  if  she  were  separated  from  her 
window  she  would  certainly  die.  It  came  out  of  her 
savings,  out  of  the  money  she  made  out  of  chickens." 

"  And  what  has  become  of  the  chickens  ?" 

"  She  has  forgotten  all  about  them;  they  wandered 
away  or  died.  She  has  been  evicted,  and  she  lives 
now  in  an  out-house.  She  lives  on  the  bits  of  bread 
and  the  potatoes  the  neighbours  give  her.  The  things 
of  this  world  are  no  longer  realities  to  her.  Her 
realities  are  what  she  sees  and  hears  in  that  window. 
She  told  me  last  night  the  saints  were  singing  about 
her.  I  don't  like  to  encourage  her  to  talk,  but  if  you 
would  like  to  hear  her — Biddy,  come  here!" 

The  old  woman  came  back  as  a  dog  comes  to  its 
master,  joyful,  and  with  brightening  eyes. 

108 


SOME   PARISHIONERS 

"  Tell  us  what  you  saw  last  night." 

"  Well,  your  reverence,  I  was  asleep,  and  there  sud- 
denly came  a  knocking  at  the  door,  and  I  got  up,  and 
then  I  head  a  voice  say,  '  Open  the  door.'  There  was 
a  beautiful  young  man  outside,  his  hair  was  yellow 
and  curly,  and  he  was  dressed  in  white.  He  came  into 
the  room  first,  and  he  was  followed  by  other  saints, 
and  they  had  harps  in  their  hands,  and  they  sang  for 
a  long  while;  they  sang  beautiful  music.  Come  to 
the  window  and  you  will  hear  it  for  yourselves.  Some- 
one is  always  singing  it  in  the  window,  not  always  as 
clearly  as  they  did  last  night." 

"  We'll  go  to  see  your  window  presently." 

The  old  woman  crept  back  to  her  place,  and  the 
priest  and  the  young  man  began  to  talk  about  the  pos- 
sibilities of  miracles  in  modern  times,  and  they  talked 
on  until  the  sudden  sight  of  Biddy  gave  them  pause. 

"  Look  at  her,"  said  the  young  man,  "  can  you  doubt 
that  she  sees  Heaven  quite  plainly,  and  that  the  saints 
visited  her  just  as  she  told  us?" 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt.  But  she's  a  great  trial  to  us 
at  Mass.  .  .  .  The  Mass  must  not  be  interrupted." 

"  I  suppose  even  miracles  are  inconvenient  at  times, 
Father  Maguire.  Be  patient  with  her,  let  her  enjoy  her 
happiness." 

And  the  two  men  stood  looking  at  her,  trying  vainly 
to  imagine  what  her  happiness  might  be. 


109 


THE  EXILE 


THE    EXILE 


PAT  PHELAN'S  bullocks  were  ready  for  the  fair,  and 
so  were  his  pigs ;  but  the  two  fairs  happened  to  come 
on  the  same  day,  and  he  thought  he  would  like  to 
sell  the  pigs  himself.  His  eldest  son,  James,  was 
staying  at  home  to  help  Catherine  Ford  with  her 
churning;  Peter,  his  second  son,  was  not  much  of  a 
hand  at  a  bargain ;  it  was  Pat  and  James  who  managed 
the  farm,  and  when  Peter  had  gone  to  bed  they  began 
to  wonder  if  Peter  would  be  able  to  sell  the  bullocks. 
Pat  said  Peter  had  been  told  the  lowest  price  he  could 
take,  James  said  there  was  a  good  demand  for  cattle, 
and  at  last  they  decided  that  Peter  could  not  fail  to 
sell  the  beasts. 

Pat  was  to  meet  Peter  at  the  cross-roads  about 
twelve  o'clock  in  the  day.  But  he  had  sold  his  pigs 
early,  and  was  half  an  hour  in  front  of  him,  and  sitting 
on  the  stile  waiting  for  his  son,  he  thought  if  Peter 
got  thirteen  pounds  apiece  for  the  bullocks  he  would 
say  he  had  done  very  well.  A  good  jobber,  he  thought, 
would  be  able  to  get  ten  shillings  apiece  more  for  them ; 
and  he  went  on  thinking  of  what  price  Peter  would 
get,  until,  suddenly  looking  up  the  road,  whom  should 
he  see  but  Peter  coming  down  the  road  with  the  bul- 
locks in  front  of  him.  He  could  hardly  believe  his 
eyes,  and  it  was  a  long  story  that  Peter  told  him  about 
two  men  who  wanted  to  buy  the  bullocks  early  in  the 
morning.  They  had  offered  him  eleven  pounds  ten, 
8  113 


THE  EXILE 

and  when  he  would  not  sell  them  at  that  price  they  had 
stood  laughing  at  the  bullocks  and  doing  all  they 
could  to  keep  off  other  buyers.  Peter  was  quite  certain 
it  was  not  his  fault,  and  he  began  to  argue.  But  Pat 
Phelan  was  too  disappointed  to  argue  with  him,  and 
he  let  him  go  on  talking.  At  last  Peter  ceased  talking, 
and  this  seemed  to  Pat  Phelan  a  good  thing. 

The  bullocks  trotted  in  front  of  them.  They  were 
seven  miles  from  home,  and  fifteen  miles  are  hard  on 
fat  animals,  and  he  could  truly  say  he  was  at  a  loss 
of  three  pounds  that  day  if  he  took  into  account  the 
animals'  keep. 

Father  and  son  walked  on,  and  not  a  word  passed 
between  them  till  they  came  to  Michael  Quinn's  public- 
house.  "  Did  you  get  three  pounds  apiece  for  the  pigs, 
father?" 

"  I  did,  and  three  pounds  five.'* 

"  We  might  have  a  drink  out  of  that." 

It  seemed  to  Peter  that  the  men  inside  were  laugh- 
ing at  him  or  at  the  lemonade  he  was  drinking,  and, 
seeing  among  them  one  who  had  been  interfering  with 
him  all  day,  he  told  him  he  would  put  him  out  of  the 
house,  and  he  would  have  done  it  if  Mrs.  Quinn  had 
not  told  him  that  no  one  put  a  man  out  of  her  house 
without  her  leave. 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  Peter  Phelan  ?" 

"  If  you  can't  best  them  at  the  fair,"  said  his  father, 
"  it  will  be  little  good  for  you  to  put  them  out  of  the 
public-house  afterwards." 

And  on  that  Peter  swore  he  would  never  go  to  a 
fair  again,  and  they  walked  on  until  they  came  to  the 
priest's  house. 

"  It  was  bad  for  me  when  I  listened  to  you  and 
114 


THE  EXILE 

James.     If  I  hadn't  I  might  have  been  in  Maynooth 
now." 

"  Now,  didn't  you  come  home  talking  of  the  polis  ?" 

"Wasn't  that  after?" 

They  could  not  agree  as  to  when  his  idea  of  life 
had  changed  from  the  priesthood  to  the  police,  nor 
when  it  had  changed  back  from  the  police  to  the 
priesthood,  and  Peter  talked  on,  telling  of  the  authors 
he  had  read  with  Father  Tom — Caesar,  Virgil,  even 
Quintillian.  The  priest  had  said  that  Quintillian  was 
too  difficult  for  him,  and  Pat  Phelan  was  in  doubt 
whether  the  difficulty  of  Quintillian  was  a  sufficient 
reason  for  preferring  the  police  to  the  priesthood. 

"  Any  way  it  isn't  a  girl  that's  troubling  him,"  he 
said  to  himself,  and  he  looked  at  Peter,  and  wondered 
how  it  was  that  Peter  did  not  want  to  be  married. 
Peter  was  a  great  big  fellow,  over  six  feet  high,  that 
many  a  girl  would  take  a  fancy  to,  and  Pat  Phelan 
had  long  had  his  eye  on  a  girl  who  would  marry  him. 
And  his  failure  to  sell  the  bullocks  brought  all  the 
advantages  of  this  marriage  to  Pat  Phelan's  mind, 
and  he  began  to  talk  to  his  son.  Peter  listened,  and 
seemed  to  take  an  interest  in  all  that  was  said,  express- 
ing now  and  then  a  doubt  if  the  girl  would  marry 
him;  the  possibility  that  she  might  seemed  to  turn 
his  thoughts  again  towards  the  priesthood. 

The  bullocks  had  stopped  to  graze,  and  Peter's  in- 
decisions threw  Pat  Phelan  fairly  out  of  his  humour. 

"  Well,  Peter,  I  am  tired  listening  to  you.  If  it's 
a  priest  you  want  to  be,  go  in  there,  and  Father  Tom 
will  tell  you  what  you  must  do,  and  I'll  drive  the  bul- 
locks home  myself."  And  on  that  Pat  laid  his  hand  on 
the  priest's  green  gate,  and  Peter  walked  through. 

"5 


THE   EXILE 


II 

THERE  were  trees  about  the  priest's  house,  and  there 
were  two  rooms  on  the  right  and  left  of  the  front 
door.  The  parlour  was  on  the  left,  and  when  Peter 
came  in  the  priest  was  sitting  reading  in  his  mahogany 
arm-chair.  Peter  wondered  if  it  were  this  very  ma- 
hogany chair  that  had  put  the  idea  of  being  a  priest 
into  his  head.  Just  now,  while  walking  with  his 
father,  he  had  been  thinking  that  they  had  not  even 
a  wooden  arm-chair  in  their  house,  though  it  was  the 
best  house  in  the  village — only  some  stools  and  some 
plain  wooden  chairs. 

The  priest  could  see  that  Peter  had  come  to  him 
for  a  purpose.  But  Peter  did  not  speak ;  he  sat  raising 
his  pale,  perplexed  eyes,  looking  at  the  priest  from 
time  to  time,  thinking  that  if  he  told  Father  Tom  of 
his  failure  at  the  fair,  Father  Tom  might  think  he  only 
wished  to  become  a  priest  because  he  had  no  taste  for 
farming. 

"  You  said,  Father  Tom,  if  I  worked  hard  I  should 
be  able  to  read  Quintillian  in  six  months." 

The  priest's  face  always  lighted  up  at  the  name  of 
a  classical  author,  and  Peter  said  he  was  sorry  he  had 
been  taken  away  from  his  studies.  But  he  had  been 
thinking  the  matter  over,  and  his  mind  was  quite 
made  up,  and  he  was  sure  he  would  sooner  be  a  priest 
than  anything  else. 

"  My  boy,  I  knew  you  would  never  put  on  the  police- 
man's belt.  The  Bishop  will  hold  an  examination  for 
the  places  that  are  vacant  in  Maynooth."  Peter  prom- 
ised to  work  hard  and  he  already  saw  himself  sitting 

116 


THE   EXILE 

in  an  arm-chair,  in  a  mahogany  arm-chair,  reading 
classics,  and  winning  admiration  for  his  learning. 

He  walked  home,  thinking  that  everything  was  at 
last  decided,  when  suddenly,  without  warning,  when 
he  was  thinking  of  something  else,  his  heart  misgave 
him.  It  was  as  if  he  heard  a  voice  saying :  "  My  boy, 
I  don't  think  you  will  ever  put  on  the  cassock.  You 
will  never  walk  with  the  biretta  on  your  head."  The 
priest  had  said  that  he  did  not  believe  he  would  ever 
buckle  on  the  policeman's  belt.  He  was  surprised 
to  hear  the  priest  say  this,  though  he  had  often  heard 
himself  thinking  the  same  thing.  What  surprised 
and  frightened  him  now  was  that  he  heard  himself 
saying  he  would  never  put  on  the  cassock  and  the 
biretta.  It  is  frightening  to  hear  yourself  saying  you 
are  not  going  to  do  the  thing  you  have  just  made  up 
your  mind  you  will  do. 

He  had  often  thought  he  would  like  to  put  the 
money  he  would  get  out  of  the  farm  into  a  shop, 
but  when  it  came  to  the  point  of  deciding  he  had 
not  been  able  to  make  up  his  mind.  He  had 
always  had  a  great  difficulty  in  knowing  what  was 
the  right  thing  to  do.  His  uncle  William  had  never 
thought  of  anything  but  the  priesthood.  James  never 
thought  of  anything  but  the  farm.  A  certain  friend 
of  his  had  never  thought  of  doing  anything  but 
going  to  America.  Suddenly  he  heard  some  one  call 
him. 

It  was  Catherine,  and  Peter  wondered  if  she  were 
thinking  to  tell  him  she  was  going  to  marry  James. 

For  she  always  knew  what  she  wanted.  Many  said 
that  James  was  not  the  one  she  wanted,  but  Peter  did 
not  believe  that,  and  he  looked  at  Catherine  and  ad- 

117 


THE   EXILE 

mired  her  face,  and  thought  what  a  credit  she  would 
be  to  the  family.  No  one  wore  such  beautifully  knitted 
stockings  as  Catherine,  and  no  one's  boots  were  so 
prettily  laced. 

But  not  knowing  exactly  what  to  say,  he  asked  her 
if  she  had  come  from  their  house,  and  he  went  on 
talking,  telling  her  that  she  would  find  nobody  in  the 
parish  like  James.  James  was  the  best  farmer  in  the 
parish,  none  such  a  judge  of  cattle;  and  he  said  all 
this  and  a  great  deal  more,  until  he  saw  that  Catherine 
did  not  care  to  talk  about  James  at  all. 

"  I  daresay  all  you  say  is  right,  Peter ;  but  you  see 
he's  your  brother." 

And  then,  fearing  she  had  said  something  hurtful, 
she  told  him  that  she  liked  James  as  much  as  a  girl 
could  like  a  man  who  was  not  going  to  be  her  hus- 
band. 

"  And  you  are  sure,  Catherine,  that  James  is  not 
going  to  be  your  husband?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  quite  sure." 

Their  talk  had  taken  them  as  far  as  Catherine's 
door,  and  Peter  went  away  wondering  why  he  had 
not  told  her  he  was  going  to  Maynooth;  for  no  one 
would  have  been  able  to  advise  him  as  well  as  Cath- 
erine, she  had  such  good  sense. 

Ill 

THERE  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  between  the  two 
houses,  and  while  Peter  was  talking  to  Catherine,  Pat 
Phelan  was  listening  to  his  son  James,  who  was  tell- 
ing his  father  that  Catherine  had  said  she  would  not 
marry  him. 

118 


THE   EXILE 

Pat  was  over  sixty,  but  he  did  not  give  one  the  im- 
pression of  an  old  man.  The  hair  was  not  grey,  there 
was  still  a  little  red  in  the  whiskers.  James,  who  sat 
opposite  to  him,  holding  his  hands  to  the  blaze,  was 
not  as  good-looking  a  man  as  his  father,  the  nose 
was  not  as  fine,  nor  were  the  eyes  as  keen.  There  was 
more  of  the  father  in  Peter  than  in  James. 

When  Peter  opened  the  half-door,  awaking  the 
dozen  hens  that  roosted  on  the  beam,  he  glanced  from 
one  to  the  other,  for  he  suspected  that  his  father  was 
telling  James  how  he  had  failed  to  sell  the  bullocks. 
But  the  tone  of  his  father's  voice  when  he  asked  him 
what  had  detained  him  on  the  road  told  him  he  was 
mistaken;  and  then  he  remembered  that  Catherine 
had  said  she  would  not  marry  James,  and  he  began  to 
pity  his  brother. 

"  I  met  Catherine  on  the  road,  and  I  could  do  no  less 
than  walk  as  far  as  her  door  with  her." 

"  You  could  do  no  less  than  that,  Peter,"  said  James. 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  James  ?" 

"  Only  this,  that  it  is  always  the  crooked  way, 
Peter;  for  if  it  had  been  you  that  had  asked  her  she 
would  have  had  you  and  jumping." 

"  She  would  have  had  me !" 

"  And  now  don't  you  think  you  had  better  run 
after  her,  Peter,  and  ask  her  if  she'll  have  you?" 

"  I'll  never  do  that ;  and  it  is  hurtful,  James,  that 
you  should  think  such  a  thing  of  me,  that  I  would  go 
behind  your  back  and  try  to  get  a  girl  from  you." 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,  Peter ;  but  if  she  won't  have 
me,  you  had  better  try  if  you  can  get  her." 

And  suddenly  Peter  felt  a  resolve  come  into  his 
heart,  and  his  manner  grew  exultant. 

119 


I 

THE   EXILE 

"  I've  seen  Father  Tom,  and  he  said  I  can  pass  the 
examination.  I'm  going  to  be  a  priest." 

And  when  they  were  lying  down  side  by  side  Peter 
said,  "  James,  it  will  be  all  right."  Knowing  there 
was  a  great  heart-sickness  on  his  brother,  he  put  out 
his  hand.  "  As  sure  as  I  lie  here  she  will  be  lying 
next  you  before  this  day  twelvemonths.  Yes,  James, 
in  this  very  bed,  lying  here  where  I  am  lying  now." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  Peter." 

Peter  loved  his  brother,  and  to  bring  the  marriage 
about  he  took  some  money  from  his  father  and  went 
to  live  at  Father  Tom's,  and  he  worked  so  hard  during 
the  next  two  months  that  he  passed  the  Bishop's  ex- 
amination. And  it  was  late  one  night  when  he  went 
to  bid  them  good-bye  at  home. 

"  What  makes  you  so  late,  Peter  ?" 

"  Well,  James,  I  didn't  want  to  meet  Catherine  on 
the  road." 

"  You  are  a  good  boy,  Peter,"  said  the  father, 
"  and  God  will  reward  you  for  the  love  you  bear  your 
brother.  I  don't  think  there  are  two  better  men  in  the 
world.  God  has  been  good  to  me  to  give  me  two  such 
sons." 

And  then  the  three  sat  round  the  fire,  and  Pat  Phelan 
began  to  talk  family  history. 

"  Well,  Peter,  you  see,  there  has  always  been  a 
priest  in  the  family,  and  it  would  be  a  pity  if  there's 
not  one  in  this  generation.  In  '48  your  grand-uncles 
joined  the  rebels,  and  they  had  to  leave  the  country. 
You  have  an  uncle  a  priest,  and  you  are  just  like  your 
uncle  William." 

And  tfien  James  talked,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  know 
very  well  what  he  was  saying,  and  his  father  told  him 

120 


THE   EXILE 

to  stop — that  Peter  was  going  where  God  had  called 
him. 

"  And  you  will  tell  her,"  Peter  said,  getting  up,  "  that 
I  have  gone." 

"  I  haven't  the  heart  for  telling  her  such  a  thing. 
She  will  be  finding  it  out  soon  enough." 

Outside  the  house — for  he  was  sleeping  at  Father 
Tom's  that  night — Peter  thought  there  was  little  luck 
in  James's  eyes ;  inside  the  house  Pat  Phelan  and 
James  thought  that  Peter  was  settled  for  life. 

"  He  will  be  a  fine  man  standing  on  an  altar," 
James  said,  "  and  perhaps  he  will  be  a  bishop  some 
day." 

"  And  you'll  see  her  when  you're  done  reaping, 
and  you  won't  forget  what  Peter  told  you,"  said  Pat 
Phelan. 

And,  after  reaping,  James  put  on  his  coat  and 
walked  up  the  hillside,  where  he  thought  he  would  find 
Catherine. 

"  I  hear  Peter  has  left  you,"  she  said,  as  he  opened 
the  gate  to  let  the  cows  through. 

"  He  came  last  night  to  bid  us  good-bye." 

And  they  followed  the  cows  under  the  tall  hedges. 

"  I  shall  be  reaping  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
see  you  at  the  same  time." 

And  henceforth  he  was  always  at  hand  to  h^lp  her 
to  drive  her  cows  home;  and  every  night,  as  he  sat 
with  his  father  by  the  fire,  Pat  Phelan  expected  James 
to  tell  him  about  Catherine.  One  evening  he  came 
back  overcome,  looking  so  wretched  that  his  father 
could  see  that  Catherine  had  told  him  she  would  not 
marry  him. 

"  She  won't  have  me,"  he  said. 
121 


"  A  man  can  always  get  a  girl  if  he  tries  long 
enough,"  his  father  said,  hoping  to  encourage  him. 

"  That  would  be  true  enough  for  another.  Catherine 
knows  she  will  never  get  Peter.  Another  man  might 
get  her,  but  I'm  always  reminding  her  of  Peter." 

She  told  him  the  truth  one  day,  that  if  she  did  not 
marry  Peter  she  would  marry  no  one,  and  James  felt 
like  dying.  He  grew  pale  and  could  not  speak. 

At  last  he  said,  "  How  is  that?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know,  James.  But  you 
mustn't  talk  to  me  about  marriage  again." 

And  he  had  to  promise  her  not  to  speak  of  mar- 
riage again,  and  he  kept  his  word.  At  the  end  of  the 
year  she  asked  him  if  he  had  any  news  of  Peter. 

"  The  last  news  we  had  of  him  was  about  a  month 
ago,  and  he  said  he  hoped  to  be  admitted  into  the 
minor  orders." 

And  a  few  days  afterwards  he  heard  that  Catherine 
had  decided  to  go  into  a  convent. 

"  So  this  is  the  way  it  has  ended,"  he  thought. 
And  he  seemed  no  longer  fit  for  work  on  the  farm. 
He  was  seen  about  the  road  smoking,  and  sometimes 
he  went  down  to  the  ball-alley,  and  sat  watching  the 
games  in  the  evening.  It  was  thought  that  he  would 
take  to  drink,  but  he  took  to  fishing  instead,  and  was 
out  all  day  in  his  little  boat  on  the  lake,  however  hard 
the  wind  might  blow.  The  fisherman  said  he  had 
seen  him  in  the  part  of  the  lake  where  the  wind  blew 
the  hardest,  and  that  he  could  hardly  pull  against  the 
waves. 

"  His  mind  is  away.  I  don't  think  he'll  do  any 
good  in  this  country,"  his  father  said. 

And  the  old  man  was  very  sad,  for  when  James  was 


THE   EXILE 

gone  he  would  have  no  one,  and  he  did  not  feel  he 
would  be  able  to  work  the  farm  for  many  years  longer. 
He  and  James  used  to  sit  smoking  on  either  side  of 
the  fireplace,  and  Pat  Phelan  knew  that  James  was 
thinking  of  America  all  the  while.  One  evening,  as 
they  were  sitting  like  this,  the  door  was  opened  sud- 
denly. 

"  Peter !"  said  James.  And  he  jumped  up  from 
the  fire  to  welcome  his  brother. 

"  It  is  good  for  sore  eyes  to  see  the  sight  of  you 
again,"  said  Pat  Phelan.  "  Well,  tell  us  the  news. 
If  we  had  known  you  were  coming  we  would  have 
sent  the  cart  to  meet  you." 

As  Peter  did  not  answer,  they  began  to  think  that 
something  must  have  happened.  Perhaps  Peter  was 
not  going  to  become  a  priest  after  all,  and  would  stay 
at  home  with  his  father  to  learn  to  work  the  farm. 

"  You  see,  I  did  not  know  myself  until  yesterday. 
It  was  only  yesterday  that " 

"  So  you  are  not  going  to  be  a  priest  ?  We  are 
glad  to  hear  that,  Peter." 

"How  is  that?" 

He  had  thought  over  what  he  should  say,  and  with- 
out waiting  to  hear  why  they  were  glad,  he  told  them 
the  professor,  who  overlooked  his  essays,  had  refused 
to  recognize  their  merits — he  had  condemned  the  best 
things  in  them;  and  Peter  said  it  was  extraordinary 
that  such  a  man  should  be  appointed  to  such  a  place. 
Then  he  told  that  the  Church  afforded  little  chances 
for  the  talents  of  young  men  unless  they  had  a  great 
deal  of  influence. 

And  they  sat  listening  to  him,  hearing  how  the  col- 
lege might  be  reformed.  He  had  a  gentle,  winning 

123 


THE  EXILE 

way  of  talking,  and  his  father  and  brother  forgot 
their  own  misfortunes  thinking  how  they  might  help 
him. 

"  Well,  Peter,  you  have  come  back  none  too  soon." 

"  And  how  is  that  ?  What  have  you  been  doing 
since  I  went  away?  You  all  wanted  to  hear  about 
Maynooth." 

"  Of  course  we  did,  my  boy.    Tell  him,  James." 

"  Oh !  it  is  nothing  particular,"  said  James.  "  It  is 
only  this,  Peter — I  am  going  to  America." 

"  And  who  will  work  the  farm  ?" 

"  Well,  Peter,  we  were  thinking  that  you  might 
work  it  yourself." 

"  I  work  the  farm !  Going  to  America,  James ! 
But  what  about  Catherine?" 

"  That's  what  I'm  coming  to,  Peter.  She  has  gone 
into  a  convent.  And  that's  what's  happened  since 
you  went  away.  I  can't  stop  here,  Peter — I  will  never 
do  a  hand's  turn  in  Ireland — and  father  is  getting  too 
old  to  go  to  the  fairs.  That's  what  we  were  thinking 
when  you  came  in." 

There  was  a  faint  tremble  in  his  voice,  and  Peter 
saw  how  heart-sick  his  brother  was. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,  James." 

"  I  knew  you  would." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  said  Peter ;  and  he  sat  down  by  the 
fire. 

And  his  father  said : — 

"  You  are  not  smoking,  Peter." 

"No,"  he  said;    "I've  given  up  smoking." 

"  Will  you  drink  something  ?"  said  James.  "  We 
have  got  a  drain  of  whiskey  in  the  house." 

"  No,  I  have  had  to  give  up  spirits.  It  doesn't 
124 


THE  EXILE 

agree  with  me.    And  I  don't  take  tea  in  the  morning. 
Have  you  got  any  cocoa  in  the  house?" 

It  was  not  the  cocoa  he  liked,  but  he  said  he  would 
be  able  to  manage. 

IV 

AND  when  the  old  man  came  through  the  doorway 
in  the  morning  buttoning  his  braces,  he  saw  Peter 
stirring  his  cocoa.  There  was  something  absurd  as 
well  as  something  attractive  in  Peter,  and  his  father 
had  to  laugh  when  he  said  he  couldn't  eat  American 
bacon. 

"  My  stomach  wouldn't  retain  it.  I  require  very 
little,  but  that  little  must  be  the  best." 

And  when  James  took  him  into  the  farmyard,  he 
noticed  that  Peter  crossed  the  yard  like  one  who  had 
never  been  in  a  farmyard  before;  he  looked  less  like 
a  farmer  than  ever,  and  when  he  looked  at  the  cows, 
James  wondered  if  he  could  be  taught  to  see  the 
difference  between  an  Alderney  and  a  Durham. 

"  There's  Kate,"  he  said ;  "  she's  a  good  cow ;  as 
good  a  cow  as  we  have,  and  we  can't  get  any  price 
for  her  because  of  that  hump  on  her  back." 

They  went  to  the  styes ;  there  were  three  pigs  there 
and  a  great  sow  with  twelve  little  bonhams,  and  the 
little  ones  were  white  with  silky  hair,  and  Peter  asked 
how  old  they  were,  and  when  they  would  be  fit  for 
killing.  And  James  told  Peter  there  were  seven  acres 
in  the  Big  field. 

"  Last  year  we  had  oats  in  the  Holly  field ;  next 
year  you'll  sow  potatoes  there."  And  he  explained 
the  rotation  of  crops.  "  And,  now,"  he  said,  "  we  will 

125 


THE   EXILE 

go  down  to  Crow's  Oak.    You  have  never  done  any 
ploughing,  Peter;    I  will  show  you." 

It  was  extraordinary  how  little  Peter  knew.  He 
could  not  put  the  harness  on  the  horse,  and  he  re- 
minded James  that  he  had  gone  into  the  post-office 
when  he  left  school.  James  gave  in  to  him  that  the 
old  red  horse  was  hard  to  drive,  but  James  could 
drive  him  better  than  Peter  could  lead  him ;  and  Peter 
marvelled  at  the  skill  with  which  James  raised  his 
hand  from  the  shaft  of  the  plough  and  struck  the  horse 
with  the  rein  whilst  he  kept  the  plough  steady  with 
the  other  hand. 

"  Now,  Peter,  you  must  try  again." 

At  the  end  of  the  headland  where  the  plough 
turned,  Peter  always  wanted  to  stop  and  talk  about 
something;  but  James  said  they  would  have  to  get 
on  with  the  work,  and  Peter  walked  after  the  plough, 
straining  after  it  for  three  hours,  and  then  he  said: 
"  James,  let  me  drive  the  horse.  I  can  do  no  more." 

"  You  won't  feel  it  so  much  when  you  are  accus- 
tomed to  it,"  said  James. 

Anything  seemed  to  him  better  than  a  day's  plough- 
ing: even  getting  up  at  three  in  the  morning  to  go 
to  a  fair. 

He  went  to  bed  early,  as  he  used  to,  and  they 
talked  of  him  over  the  fire,  as  they  used  to.  But  how- 
ever much  they  talked,  they  never  seemed  to  find  what 
they  were  seeking — his  vocation — until  one  evening 
an  idea  suddenly  rose  out  of  their  talk. 

"  A  good  wife  is  the  only  thing  for  Peter,"  said  Pat. 

And  they  went  on  thinking. 

"  A  husband  would  be  better  for  her,"  said  Pat 
Phelan,  "  than  a  convent." 

126 


THE   EXILE 

"  I  cannot  say  I  agree  with  you  there.  Think  of  all 
the  good  them  nuns  are  doing." 

"  She  isn't  a  nun  yet,"  said  Pat  Phelan. 

And  the  men  smoked  on  a  while,  and  they  ruminated 
as  they  smoked. 

"  It  would  be  better,  James,  that  Peter  got  her  than 
that  she  should  stay  in  a  convent." 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that,"  said  James. 

"  You  see,"  said  his  father,  "  she  did  not  go  into 
the  convent  because  she  had  a  calling,  but  because  she 
was  crossed  in  love." 

And  after  another  long  while  James  said,  "  It  is  a 
bitter  dose,  I  am  thinking,  father,  but  you  must  go 
and  tell  her  that  Peter  has  left  Maynooth." 

"  And  what  would  the  Reverend  Mother  be  saying 
to  me  if  I  went  to  her  with  such  a  story  as  that  ?  Isn't 
your  heart  broken  enough  already,  James,  without 
wanting  me  to  be  breaking  it  still  more  ?  Sure,  James, 
you  could  never  see  her  married  to  Peter  ?" 

"If  she  were  to  marry  Peter  I  should  be  able  to  go 
to  America,  and  that  is  the  only  thing  for  me." 

"  That  would  be  poor  consolation  for  you,  James." 

"  Well,  it  is  the  best  I  shall  get,  to  see  Peter  settled, 
and  to  know  that  there  will  be  some  one  to  look  after 
you,  father." 

"  You  are  a  good  son,  James." 

They  talked  on,  and  as  they  talked  it  became  clearer 
to  them  that  some  one  must  go  to-morrow  to  the 
convent  and  tell  Catherine  that  Peter  had  left  May- 
nooth. 

"  But  wouldn't  it  be  a  pity,"  said  Pat  Phelan,  "  to 
tell  her  this  if  Peter  is  not  going  to  marry  her  in  the 
end?" 

127 


THE   EXILE 

"  I'll  have  him  out  of  his  bed,"  said  James,  "  and 
he'll  tell  us  before  this  fire  if  he  will  or  won't." 

"  It's  a  serious  thing  you  are  doing,  James,  to  get  a 
girl  out  of  a  convent,  I  am  thinking." 

"  It  will  be  on  my  advice  that  you  will  be  doing 
this,  father;  and  now  I'll  go  and  get  Peter  out  of  his 
bed." 

And  Peter  was  brought  in,  asking  what  they  wanted 
of  him  at  this  hour  of  the  night;  and  when  they  told 
him  what  they  had  been  talking  about  and  the  plans 
they  had  been  making,  he  said  he  would  be  catching 
his  death  of  cold,  and  they  threw  some  sods  of  turf  on 
the  fire. 

"  It  is  against  myself  that  I  am  asking  a  girl  to 
leave  the  convent,  even  for  you,  Peter,"  said  James. 
"  But  we  can  think  of  nothing  else." 

"  Peter  will  be  able  to  tell  us  if  it  is  a  sin  that  we'd 
be  doing." 

"  It  is  only  right  that  Catherine  should  know  the 
truth  before  she  made  her  vows,"  Peter  said.  "  But 
this  is  very  unexpected,  father.  I  really " 

"  Peter,  I'd  take  it  as  a  great  kindness.  I  shall 
never  do  a  hand's  turn  in  this  country.  I  want  to  get 
to  America.  It  will  be  the  saving  of  me." 

"  And  now,  Peter,"  said  his  father,  "  tell  us  for  sure 
if  you  will  have  the  girl  ?" 

"  Faith  I  will,  though  I  never  thought  of  marriage, 
if  it  be  to  please  James."  Seeing  how  heart-sick  his 
brother  was,  he  said,  "  I  can't  say  I  like  her  as  you 
like  her;  but  if  she  likes  me  I  will  promise  to  do 
right  by  her.  James,  you're  going  away;  we  may 
never  see  you  again.  It  is  all  very  sad.  And  now 
you'll  let  me  go  back  to  bed." 

128 


THE  EXILE 

"  Peter,  I  knew  you  would  not  say  no  to  me ;  I 
can't  bear  this  any  longer." 

"  And  now,"  said  Peter,  "  let  me  go  back  to  bed. 
I  am  catching  my  death." 

And  he  ran  back  to  his  room,  and  left  his  brother 
and  father  talking  by  the  fire. 


V 

PAT  thought  the  grey  mare  would  take  him  in 
faster  than  the  old  red  horse;  and  the  old  man  sat, 
his  legs  swinging  over  the  shaft,  wondering  what  he 
should  say  to  the  Reverend  Mother,  and  how  she  would 
listen  to  his  story;  and  when  he  came  to  the  priest's 
house  a  great  wish  came  upon  him  to  ask  the  priest's 
advice.  The  priest  was  walking  up  his  little  lawn 
reading  his  breviary,  and  a  great  fear  came  on  Pat 
Phelan,  and  he  thought  he  must  ask  the  priest  what 
he  should  do. 

The  priest  heard  the  story  over  the  little  wall,  and 
he  was  sorry  for  the  old  man. 

It  took  him  a  long  time  to  tell  the  story,  and  when 
he  was  finished  the  priest  said: — 

"  But  where  are  you  going,  Pat  ?" 

"  That's  what  I  stopped  to  tell  you,  your  reverence. 
I  was  thinking  I  might  be  going  to  the  convent  to 
tell  Catherine  that  Peter  has  come  back." 

"  Well  it  wasn't  yourself  that  thought  of  doing  such 
a  thing  as  that,  Pat  Phelan." 

But  at  every  word  the  priest  said  Pat  Phelan's  face 
grew  more  stubborn,  and  at  last  he  said: — 

"  Well,  your  reverence,  that  isn't  the  advice  I  ex- 
9  129 


THE   EXILE 

pected  from  you,"  and  he  struck  the  mare  with  the 
ends  of  the  reins  and  let  her  trot  up  the  hill.  Nor 
did  the  mare  stop  trotting  till  she  had  reached  the 
top  of  the  hill,  and  Pat  Phelan  had  never  known  her 
do  such  a  thing  before.  From  the  top  of  the  hill 
there  was  a  view  of  the  bog,  and  Pat  thought  of  the 
many  fine  loads  of  turf  he  had  had  out  of  that  bog, 
and  the  many  young  fellows  he  had  seen  there  cut- 
ting turf.  "  But  every  one  is  leaving  the  country," 
the  old  man  said  to  himself,  and  his  chin  dropped 
into  his  shirt-collar,  and  he  held  the  reins  loosely, 
letting  the  mare  trot  or  walk  as  she  liked.  And  he 
let  many  pass  him  without  bidding  them  the  hour 
of  the  day,  for  he  was  too  much  overcome  by  his  own 
grief  to  notice  anyone. 

The  mare  trotted  gleefully;  soft  clouds  curled  over 
the  low  horizon  far  away,  and  the  sky  was  blue  over- 
head; and  the  poor  country  was  very  beautiful  in 
the  still  autumn  weather,  only  it  was  empty.  He 
passed  two  or  three  fine  houses  that  the  gentry  had 
left  to  caretakers  long  ago.  The  fences  were  gone, 
cattle  strayed  through  the  woods,  the  drains  were 
choked  with  weeds,  the  stagnant  water  was  spreading 
out  into  the  fields,  and  Pat  Phelan  noticed  these 
things,  for  he  remembered  what  this  country  was  forty 
years  ago.  The  devil  a  bit  of  lonesomeness  there  was 
in  it  then. 

He  asked  a  girl  if  they  would  be  thatching  the  house 
that  autumn ;  but  she  answered  that  the  thatch  would 
last  out  the  old  people,  and  she  was  going  to  join  her 
sister  in  America. 

"  She's  right — they're  all  there  now.  Why  should 
anyone  stop  here?"  the  old  man  said. 

130 


THE   EXILE 

The  mare  tripped,  and  he  took  this  to  be  a  sign  tU? ; 
he  should  turn  back.  But  he  did  not  go  back.  Very 
soon  the  town  began,  in  broken  pavements  and  dirty 
cottages;  going  up  the  hill  there  were  some  slated 
roofs,  but  there  was  no  building  of  any  importance 
except  the  church. 

At  the  end  of  the  main  street,  where  the  trees  began 
again,  the  convent  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  large 
garden,  and  Pat  Phelan  remembered  he  had  heard  that 
the  nuns  were  doing  well  with  their  dairy  and  their 
laundry. 

He  knocked,  and  a  lay-sister  peeped  through  the 
grating,  and  then  she  opened  the  door  a  little  way,  and 
at  first  he  thought  he  would  have  to  go  back  without 
seeing  either  Catherine  or  the  Reverend  Mother.  For 
he  had  got  no  further  than  "  Sister  Catherine,"  when 
the  lay-sister  cut  him  short  with  the  news  that  Sister 
Catherine  was  in  retreat,  and  could  see  no  one.  The 
Reverend  Mother  was  busy. 

"  But,"  said  Pat,  "  you're  not  going  to  let  Catherine 
take  vows  without  hearing  me." 

"  If  it  is  about  Sister  Catherine's  vows " 

"  Yes,  it  is  about  them  I've  come,  and  I  must  see  the 
Reverend  Mother." 

The  lay-sister  said  Sister  Catherine  was  going  to  be 
clothed  at  the  end  of  the  week. 

"  Well,  that  is  just  the  reason  I've  come  here." 

On  that  the  lay-sister  led  him  into  the  parlour,  and 
went  in  search  of  the  Reverend  Mother. 

The  floor  was  so  thickly  bees-waxed  that  the  rug 
slipped  under  his  feet,  and,  afraid  lest  he  might  fall 
down,  he  stood  quite  still,  impressed  by  the  pious  pic- 
tures on  the  walls,  and  by  the  large  books  upon  the 

131 


THE  EXILE 

cable,  and  by  the  poor-box,  and  by  the  pious  inscrip- 
tions. He  began  to  think  how  much  easier  was  this 
pious  life  than  the  life  of  the  world — the  rearing  of 
children,  the  failure  of  crops,  and  the  loneliness.  Here 
life  slips  away  without  one  perceiving  it,  and  it  seemed 
a  pity  to  bring  her  back  to  trouble.  He  stood  holding 
his  hat  in  his  old  hands,  and  the  time  seemed  very  long. 
At  last  the  door  opened,  and  a  tall  woman  with  sharp, 
inquisitive  eyes  came  in. 

"  You  have  come  to  speak  to  me  about  Sister  Cath- 
erine?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  And  what  have  you  got  to  tell  me  about  her  ?" 

"  Well,  my  son  thought  and  I  thought  last  night — 
we  were  all  thinking  we  had  better  tell  you — last  night 
was  the  night  that  my  son  came  back." 

At  the  word  Maynooth  a  change  of  expression  came 
into  her  face,  but  when  he  told  that  Peter  no  longer 
wished  to  be  a  priest  her  manner  began  to  grow  hostile 
again,  and  she  got  up  from  her  chair  and  said: — 

"  But  really,  Mr.  Phelan,  I  have  got  a  great  deal  of 
business  to  attend  to." 

"  But,  my  lady,  you  see  that  Catherine  wanted  to 
marry  my  son  Peter,  and  it  is  because  he  went  to  May- 
nooth that  she  came  here.  I  don't  think  she'd  want  to 
be  a  nun  if  she  knew  that  he  didn't  want  to  be  a  priest." 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Phelan,  in  that.  I 
have  seen  a  great  deal  of  Sister  Catherine — she  has 
been  with  us  now  for  nearly  a  year — and  if  she  ever 
entertained  the  wishes  you  speak  of,  I  feel  sure  she  has 
forgotten  them.  Her  mind  is  now  set  on  higher 
things." 

"  Of  course  you  may  be  right,  my  lady,  very  likely. 
132 


THE   EXILE 

It  isn't  for  me  to  argue  with  you  about  such  things; 
but  you  see  I  have  come  a  long  way,  and  if  I  could  see 

Catherine  herself " 

"  That  is  impossible.    Catherine  is  in  retreat." 

"  So  the  lay-sister  told  me ;  but  I  thought " 

"  Sister  Catherine  is  going  to  be  clothed  next  Satur- 
day, and  I  can  assure  you,  Mr.  Phelan,  that  the  wishes 
you  tell  me  of  are  forgotten.  I  know  her  very  well. 
I  can  answer  for  Sister  Catherine." 

The  rug  slipped  under  the  peasant's  feet  and  his  eyes 
wandered  round  the  room ;  and  the  Reverend  Mother 
told  him  how  busy  she  was,  she  really  could  not  talk  to 
him  any  more  that  day. 

"  You  see,  it  all  rests  with  Sister  Catherine  herself." 
"  That's  just  it,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  that's  just  it, 
my  lady.  My  son  Peter,  who  has  come  from  May- 
nooth,  told  us  last  night  that  Catherine  should  know 
everything  that  has  happened,  so  that  she  may  not  be 
sorry  afterwards,  otherwise  I  wouldn't  have  come  here, 
my  lady.  I  wouldn't  have  come  to  trouble  you." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Phelan,  that  your  son  Peter  has 
left  Maynooth.  It  is  sad  indeed  when  one  finds  that 
one  has  not  a  vocation.  But  that  happens  sometimes. 
I  don't  think  that  it  will  be  Catherine's  case.  And  now, 
Mr.  Phelan,  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,"  and  the 
Reverend  Mother  persuaded  the  unwilling  peasant  into 
the  passage,  and  he  followed  the  lay-sister  down  the 
passage  to  the  gate  and  got  into  his  cart  again. 

"  No  wonder,"  he  thought,  "  they  don't  want  to  let 
Catherine  out,  now  that  they  have  got  that  great  farm, 
and  not  one  among  them,  I'll  be  bound,  who  can  man- 
age it  except  Catherine." 

At  the  very  same  moment  the  same  thoughts  passed 
i33 


THE  EXILE 

through  the  Reverend  Mother's  mind.  She  had  not 
left  the  parlour  yet,  and  stood  thinking  how  she  should 
manage  if  Catherine  were  to  leave  them.  "  Why,"  she 
asked,  "  should  he  choose  to  leave  Maynooth  at  such  a 
time?  It  is  indeed  unfortunate.  There  is  nothing," 
she  reflected,  "  that  gives  a  woman  so  much  strength 
as  to  receive  the  veil.  She  always  feels  stronger  after 
her  clothing.  She  feels  that  the  world  is  behind  her." 

The  Reverend  Mother  reflected  that  perhaps  it  would 
be  better  for  Catherine's  sake  and  for  Peter's  sake — 
indeed,  for  everyone's  sake — if  she  were  not  to  tell 
Catherine  of  Pat  Phelan's  visit  until  after  the  clothing. 
She  might  tell  Catherine  three  months  hence.  The 
disadvantage  of  this  would  be  that  Catherine  might 
hear  that  Peter  had  left  Maynooth.  In  a  country  place 
news  of  this  kind  cannot  be  kept  out  of  a  convent. 
And  if  Catherine  were  going  to  leave,  it  were  better 
that  she  should  leave  them  now  than  leave  them  six 
months  hence,  after  her  clothing. 

"  There  are  many  ways  of  looking  at  it,"  the  Rev- 
erend Mother  reflected.  "  If  I  don't  tell  her,  she  may 
never  hear  it.  I  might  tell  her  later  when  she  has 
taught  one  of  the  nuns  how  to  manage  the  farm."  She 
took  two  steps  towards  the  door  and  stopped  to  think 
again,  and  she  was  thinking  when  a  knock  came  to  the 
door.  She  answered  mechanically,  "  Come  in,"  and 
Catherine  wondered  at  the  Reverend  Mother's  aston- 
ishment. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  dear  mother,"  she  said 
timidly.  But  seeing  the  Reverend  Mother's  face 
change  expression,  she  said,  "  Perhaps  another  time 
will  suit  you  better." 

The  Reverend  Mother  stood  looking  at  her,  irreso- 
i34 


THE   EXILE 

lute ;  and  Catherine,  who  had  never  seen  the  Reverend 
Mother  irresolute  before,  wondered  what  was  passing 
in  her  mind. 

"  I  know  you  are  busy,  dear  mother,  but  what  I  have 
come  to  tell  you  won't  take  very  long." 

"  Well,  then,  tell  it  to  me,  my  child." 

"  It  is  only  this,  Reverend  Mother.  I  had  better  tell 
you  now,  for  you  are  expecting  the  Bishop,  and  my 
clothing  is  fixed  for  the  end  of  the  week,  and " 

"  And,"  said  the  Reverend  Mother,  "  you  feel  that 
you  are  not  certain  of  your  vocation." 

"  That  is  it,  dear  mother.  I  thought  I  had  better  tell 
you."  Reading  disappointment  in  the  nun's  face, 
Catherine  said,  "  I  hesitated  to  tell  you  before.  I  had 
hoped  that  the  feeling  would  pass  away;  but,  dear 
mother,  it  isn't  my  fault ;  everyone  has  not  a  vocation." 

Then  Catherine  noticed  a  softening  in  the  Reverend 
Mother's  face,  and  she  asked  Catherine  to  sit  down  by 
her ;  and  Catherine  told  her  she  had  come  to  the  con- 
vent because  she  was  crossed  in  love,  and  not  as  the 
others  came,  because  they  wished  to  give  up  their  wills 
to  God. 

"  Our  will  is  the  most  precious  thing  in  us,  and  that 
is  why  the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  give  it  up  to  you, 
for  in  giving  it  up  to  you,  dear  mother,  we  are  giving 
it  up  to  God.  I  know  all  these  things,  but " 

"  You  should  have  told  me  of  this  when  you  came 
here,  Catherine,  and  then  I  would  not  have  advised 
you  to  come  to  live  with  us." 

"  Mother,  you  must  forgive  me.  My  heart  was 
broken,  and  I  could  not  do  otherwise.  And  you  have 
said  yourself  that  I  made  the  dairy  a  success." 

"  If  you  had  stayed  with  us,  Catherine,  you  would 
135 


THE  EXILE 

have  made  the  dairy  a  success ;  but  we  have  got  no  one 
to  take  your  place.  However,  since  it  is  the  will  of 
God,  I  suppose  we  must  try  to  get  on  as  well  as  we 
can  without  you.  And  now  tell  me,  Catherine,  when  it 
was  that  you  changed  your  mind.  It  was  only  the 
other  day  you  told  me  you  wished  to  become  a  nun. 
You  said  you  were  most  anxious  for  your  clothing. 
How  is  it  that  you  have  changed  your  mind?" 

Catherine's  eyes  brightened,  and  speaking  like  one 
illuminated  by  some  inward  light,  she  said : — 

"  It  was  the  second  day  of  my  retreat,  mother.  I 
was  walking  in  the  garden  where  the  great  cross  stands 
amid  the  rocks.  Sister  Angela  and  Sister  Mary  were 
with  me,  and  I  was  listening  to  what  they  were  saying, 
when  suddenly  my  thoughts  were  taken  away  and  I 
remembered  those  at  home.  I  remembered  Mr.  Phelan, 
and  James,  who  wanted  to  marry  me,  but  whom  I 
would  not  marry ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  him 
leaving  his  father — it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  him 
going  away  to  America.  I  don't  know  how  it  was — 
you  will  not  believe  me,  dear  mother — but  I  saw  the 
ship  lying  in  the  harbour,  that  is  to  take  him  away. 
And  then  I  thought  of  the  old  man  sitting  at  home  with 
no  one  to  look  after  him,  and  it  was  not  a  seeming, 
but  a  certainty,  mother.  It  came  over  me  suddenly 
that  my  duty  was  not  here,  but  there.  Of  course  you 
can't  agree  with  me,  but  I  cannot  resist  it,  it  was  a 
call." 

"  But  the  Evil  One,  my  dear  child,  calls  us  too ;  we 
must  be  careful  not  to  mistake  the  devil's  call  for 
God's  call." 

"  Mother,  I  daresay."  Tears  came  to  Catherine's 
eyes,  she  began  to  weep.  "  I  can't  argue  with  you, 

136 


THE   EXILE 

mother,  I  only  know "     She  could  not  speak  for 

sobbing,  and  between  her  sobs  she  said,  "  I  only  know 
that  I  must  go  home." 

She  recovered  herself  very  soon,  and  the  Reverend 
Mother  took  her  hand  and  said : — 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,  I  shall  not  stand  in  your 
way." 

Even  the  Reverend  Mother  could  not  help  thinking 
that  the  man  who  got  her  would  get  a  charming  wife. 
Her  face  was  rather  long  and  white,  and  she  had  long 
female  eyes  with  dark  lashes,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tenderness.  She  had  spoken  out  of  so  deep  a  convic- 
tion that  the  Reverend  Mother  had  begun  to  believe 
that  her  mission  was  perhaps  to  look  after  this  hapless 
young  man ;  and  when  she  told  the  Reverend  Mother 
that  yesterday  she  had  felt  a  conviction  that  Peter  was 
not  going  to  be  a  priest,  the  Reverend  Mother  felt  that 
she  must  tell  her  of  Pat  Phelan's  visit. 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  at  once,  my  dear  child,  because 
I  wished  to  know  from  yourself  how  you  felt  about 
this  matter,"  the  nun  said ;  and  she  told  Catherine  that 
she  was  quite  right,  that  Peter  had  left  Maynooth. 
"  He  hopes  to  marry  you,  Catherine." 

A  quiet  glow  came  into  the  postulant's  eyes,  and  she 
seemed  engulfed  in  some  deep  joy. 

"  How  did  he  know  that  I  cared  for  him  ?"  the  girl 
said,  half  to  herself,  half  to  the  nun. 

"  I  suppose  his  father  or  his  brother  must  have  told 
him,"  the  nun  answered. 

And  then  Catherine,  fearing  to  show  too  much  inter- 
est in  things  that  the  nun  deemed  frivolous,  said,  "  I 
am  sorry  to  leave  before  my  work  is  done  here.  But, 
mother,  so  it  has  all  come  true;  it  was  extraordinary 


THE  EXILE 

what  I  felt  that  morning  in  the  garden,"  she  said, 
returning  to  her  joy.  "  Mother,  do  you  believe  in 
visions  ?" 

"  The  saints,  of  course,  have  had  visions.  We  believe 
in  the  visions  of  the  saints." 

"  But  after  all,  mother,  there  are  many  duties  besides 
religious  duties." 

"  I  suppose,  Catherine,  you  feel  it  to  be  your  duty 
to  look  after  this  young  man  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  that  is  it.  I  must  go  now,  mother, 
and  see  Sister  Angela,  and  write  out  for  her  all  I  know 
about  the  farm,  and  what  she  is  to  do,  for  if  one  is  not 
very  careful  with  a  farm  one  loses  a  great  deal  of 
money.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  making  two  ends 
meet.  One  either  makes  money  or  loses  money." 

And  then  Catherine  again  seemed  to  be  engulfed  in 
some  deep  joy,  out  of  which  she  roused  herself  with 
difficulty. 

VI 

WHEN  her  postulant  left  the  room,  the  Reverend 
Mother  wrote  to  Pat  Phelan,  asking  him  to  come  next 
morning  with  his  cart  to  fetch  Catherine.  And  next 
morning,  when  the  lay-sister  told  Catherine  that  he 
was  waiting  for  her,  the  Reverend  Mother  said : — 

"  We  shall  be  able  to  manage,  Catherine.  You  have 
told  Sister  Angela  everything,  and  you  will  not  forget 
to  come  to  see  us,  I  hope." 

"  Mr.  Phelan,"  said  the  lay-sister,  "  told  me  to  tell 
you  that  one  of  his  sons  is  going  to  America  to-day. 
Sister  Catherine  will  have  to  go  at  once  if  she  wishes 
to  see  him." 

138 


THE  EXILE 

"  I  must  see  James.  I  must  see  him  before  he  leaves 
for  America.  Oh,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  Reverend 
Mother,  "  do  you  remember  that  I  told  you  I  had  seen 
the  ship?  Everything  has  come  true.  You  can't 
believe  any  longer  that  it  is  not  a  call." 

Her  box  was  in  the  cart,  and  as  Pat  turned  the  mare 
round  he  said :  "  I  hope  we  won't  miss  James  at  the 
station.  That's  the  reason  I  came  for  you  so  early.  I 
thought  you  would  like  to  see  him." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  earlier  ?"  she  cried.  "  All 
my  happiness  will  be  spoilt  if  I  don't  see  James." 

The  convent  was  already  behind  her,  and  her 
thoughts  were  now  upon  poor  James,  whose  heart  she 
had  broken.  She  knew  that  Peter  would  never  love 
her  as  well  as  James,  but  this  could  not  be  helped.  Her 
vision  in  the  garden  consoled  her,  for  she  could  no 
longer  doubt  that  she  was  doing  right  in  going  to 
Peter,  that  her  destiny  was  with  him. 

She  knew  the  road  well,  she  knew  all  the  fields, 
every  house  and  every  gap  in  the  walls.  Sign  after 
sign  went  by;  at  last  they  were  within  sight  of  the 
station.  The  signal  was  still  up,  and  the  train  had  not 
gone  yet;  at  the  end  of  the  platform  she  saw  James 
and  Peter.  She  let  Pat  Phelan  drive  the  cart  round; 
she  could  get  to  them  quicker  by  running  down  the 
steps  and  crossing  the  line.  The  signal  went  down. 

"  Peter,"  she  said,  "  we  shall  have  time  to  talk  pres- 
ently. I  want  to  speak  to  James  now." 

And  they  walked  up  to  the  platform,  leaving  Peter 
to  talk  to  his  father. 

"  Paddy  Maguire  is  outside,"  Pat  said ;  "  I  asked  him 
to  stand  at  the  mare's  head." 

"  James,"  said  Catherine,  "  it  is  very  sad  you  are 
139 


THE  EXILE 

going  away.  We  may  never  see  you  again,  and  there 
is  no  time  to  talk,  and  I've  much  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  am  going  away,  Catherine,  but  maybe  I  will  be 
coming  back  some  day.  I  was  going  to  say  maybe  you 
would  be  coming  over  after  me ;  but  the  land  is  good 
land,  and  you'll  be  able  to  make  a  living  out  of  it." 

And  then  they  spoke  of  Peter.  James  said  he  was 
too  great  a  scholar  for  a  farmer,  and  it  was  a  pity  he 
could  not  find  out  what  he  was  fit  for — for  surely  he 
was  fit  for  something  great  after  all. 

And  Catherine  said: — 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  make  something  out  of  Peter." 

His  emotion  almost  overcame  him,  and  Catherine 
looked  aside  so  that  she  should  not  see  his  tears. 

"  This  is  no  time  for  talking  of  Peter,"  she  said, 
"  You  are  going  away,  James,  but  you  will  come  back. 
You  will  find  another  woman  better  than  I  am  in 
America,  James.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you. 
The  train  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  I  am  distracted. 
But  one  day  you  will  be  coming  back,  and  we  shall  be 
very  proud  of  you  when  you  come  back.  I  shall  rebuild 
the  house,  and  we  shall  be  all  happy  then.  Oh !  here's 
the  train.  Good-bye ;  you  have  been  very  good  to  me. 
Oh,  James !  shall  I  ever  see  you  again  ?" 

Then  the  crowd  swept  them  along,  and  James  had 
to  take  his  father's  hand  and  his  brother's  hand.  There 
were  a  great  many  people  in  the  station — hundreds 
were  going  away  in  the  same  ship  that  James  was 
going  in.  The  train  was  followed  by  wailing  relatives. 
They  ran  alongside  of  the  train,  waving  their  hands 
until  they  could  no  longer  keep  up  with  the  train. 
James  waved  a  red  handkerchief  until  the  train  was 
out  of  sight.  It  disappeared  in  a  cutting,  and  a  moment 

140 


THE   EXILE 

after  Catherine  and  Peter  remembered  they  were  stand- 
ing side  by  side.  They  were  going  to  be  married  in  a 
few  days !  They  started  a  little,  hearing  a  step  beside 
them.  It  was  old  Phelan. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  it  is  time  to  be  getting  home." 


141 


HOME  SICKNESS 


HOME    SICKNESS 

HE  told  the  doctor  he  was  due  in  the  bar-room  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  bar-room  was  in  a 
slum  in  the  Bowery ;  and  he  had  only  been  able  to  keep 
himself  in  health  by  getting  up  at  five  o'clock  and 
going  for  long  walks  in  the  Central  Park. 

"  A  sea  voyage  is  what  you  want,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Why  not  go  to  Ireland  for  two  or  three  months  ? 
You  will  come  back  a  new  man." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  Ireland  again." 

And  then  he  began  to  wonder  how  the  people  at 
home  were  getting  on.  The  doctor  was  right.  He 
thanked  him,  and  three  weeks  afterwards  he  landed  in 
Cork. 

As  he  sat  in  the  railway  carriage  he  recalled  his 
native  village — he  could  see  it  and  its  lake,  and  then 
the  fields  one  by  one,  and  the  roads.  He  could  see  a 
large  piece  of  rocky  land — some  three  or  four  hundred 
acres  of  headland  stretching  out  into  the  winding  lake. 
Upon  this  headland  the  peasantry  had  been  given  per- 
mission to  build  their  cabins  by  former  owners  of  the 
Georgian  house  standing  on  the  pleasant  green  hill. 
The  present  owners  considered  the  village  a  disgrace, 
but  the  villagers  paid  high  rents  for  their  plots  of 
ground,  and  all  the  manual  labour  that  the  Big  House 
required  came  from  the  village:  the  gardeners,  the 
stable  helpers,  the  house  and  the  kitchen  maids. 

He  had  been  thirteen  years  in  America,  and  when  the 
train  stopped  at  his  station,  he  looked  round  to  see  if 
10  145 


HOME  SICKNESS 

there  were  any  changes  in  it.  It  was  just  the  same 
blue  limestone  station-house  as  it  was  thirteen  years 
ago.  The  platform  and  the  sheds  were  the  same,  and 
there  were  five  miles  of  road  from  the  station  to  Dun- 
cannon.  The  sea  voyage  had  done  him  good,  but  five 
miles  were  too  far  for  him  to-day ;  the  last  time  he 
had  walked  the  road,  he  had  walked  it  in  an  hour  and 
a  half,  carrying  a  heavy  bundle  on  a  stick. 

He  was  sorry  he  did  not  feel  strong  enough  for  the 
walk ;  the  evening  was  fine,  and  he  would  meet  many 
people  coming  home  from  the  fair,  some  of  whom 
he  had  known  in  his  youth,  and  they  would  tell  him 
where  he  could  get  a  clean  lodging.  But  the  carman 
would  be  able  to  tell  him  that;  he  called  the  car  that 
was  waiting  at  the  station,  and  soon  he  was  answering 
questions  about  America.  But  Bryden  wanted  to  hear 
of  those  who  were  still  living  in  the  old  country,  and 
after  hearing  the  stories  of  many  people  he  had  for- 
gotten, he  heard  that  Mike  Scully,  who  had  been  away 
in  a  situation  for  many  years  as  a  coachman  in  the 
King's  County,  had  come  back  and  built  a  fine  house 
with  a  concrete  floor.  Now  there  was  a  good  loft  in 
Mike  Scully's  house,  and  Mike  would  be  pleased  to 
take  in  a  lodger. 

Bryden  remembered  that  Mike  had  been  in  a  situa- 
tion at  the  Big  House ;  he  had  intended  to  be  a  jockey, 
but  had  suddenly  shot  up  into  a  fine  tall  man,  and  had 
had  to  become  a  coachman  instead.  Bryden  tried  to 
recall  the  face,  but  he  could  only  remember  a  straight 
nose,  and  a  somewhat  dusky  complexion.  Mike  was 
one  of  the  heroes  of  his  childhood,  and  his  youth  floated 
before  him,  and  he  caught  glimpses  of  himself,  some- 
thing that  was  more  than  a  phantom  and  less  than  a 

146 


HOME   SICKNESS 

reality.  Suddenly  his  reverie  was  broken :  the  carman 
pointed  with  his  whip,  and  Bryden  saw  a  tall,  finely- 
built,  middle-aged  man  coming  through  the  gates,  and 
the  driver  said : — 

"  There's  Mike  Scully." 

Mike  had  forgotten  Bryden  even  more  completely 
than  Bryden  had  forgotten  him,  and  many  aunts  and 
uncles  were  mentioned  before  he  began  to  understand. 

"  You've  grown  into  a  fine  man,  James,"  he  said, 
looking  at  Bryden's  great  width  of  chest.  "  But  you 
are  thin  in  the  cheeks,  and  you're  sallow  in  the  cheeks 
too." 

"  I  haven't  been  very  well  lately — that  is  one  of  the 
reasons  I  have  come  back;  but  I  want  to  see  you  all 
again." 

Bryden  paid  the  carman,  wished  him  "  God-speed," 
and  he  and  Mike  divided  the  luggage  between  them, 
Mike  carrying  the  bag  and  Bryden  the  bundle,  and 
they  walked  round  the  lake,  for  the  townland  was  at 
the  back  of  the  demesne;  and  while  they  walked, 
James  proposed  to  pay  Mike  ten  shillings  a  week  for 
his  board  and  lodging. 

He  remembered  the  woods  thick  and  well-forested; 
now  they  were  windworn,  the  drains  were  choked,  and 
the  bridge  leading  across  the  lake  inlet  was  falling 
away.  Their  way  led  between  long  fields  where  herds 
of  cattle  were  grazing;  the  road  was  broken — Bryden 
wondered  how  the  villagers  drove  their  carts  over  it, 
and  Mike  told  him  that  the  landlord  could  not  keep  it 
in  repair,  and  he  would  not  allow  it  to  be  kept  in  repair 
out  of  the  rates,  for  then  it  would  be  a  public  road,  and 
he  did  not  think  there  should  be  a  public  road  through 
his  property. 

i47 


HOME  SICKNESS 

At  the  end  of  many  fields  they  came  to  the  village, 
and  it  looked  a  desolate  place,  even  on  this  fine  evening, 
and  Bryden  remarked  that  the  county  did  not  seem  to 
be  as  much  lived  in  as  it  used  to  be.  It  was  at  once 
strange  and  familiar  to  see  the  chickens  in  the  kitchen ; 
and,  wishing  to  re-knit  himself  to  the  old  habits,  he 
begged  of  Mrs.  Scully  not  to  drive  them  out,  saying 
he  did  not  mind  them.  Mike  told  his  wife  that  Bryden 
was  born  in  Duncannon,  and  when  he  mentioned 
Bryden's  name  she  gave  him  her  hand,  after  wiping  it 
in  her  apron,  saying  he  was  heartily  welcome,  only  she 
was  afraid  he  would  not  care  to  sleep  in  a  loft. 

"  Why  wouldn't  I  sleep  in  a  loft,  a  dry  loft !  You're 
thinking  a  good  deal  of  America  over  here,"  said  he, 
"  but  I  reckon  it  isn't  all  you  think  it.  Here  you  work 
when  you  like  and  you  sit  down  when  you  like;  but 
when  you  have  had  a  touch  of  blood-poisoning  as  I 
had,  and  when  you  have  seen  young  people  walking 
with  a  stick,  you  think  that  there  is  something  to  be 
said  for  old  Ireland." 

"  Now  won't  you  be  taking  a  sup  of  milk  ?  You'll 
be  wanting  a  drink  after  travelling,"  said  Mrs.  Scully. 

And  when  he  had  drunk  the  milk  Mike  asked  him 
if  he  would  like  to  go  inside  or  if  he  would  like  to  go 
for  a  walk. 

"  Maybe  it  is  sitting  down  you  would  like  to  be." 

And  they  went  into  the  cabin,  and  started  to  talk 
about  the  wages  a  man  could  get  in  America,  and  the 
long  hours  of  work. 

And  after  Bryden  had  told  Mike  everything  about 
America  that  he  thought  would  interest  him,  he  asked 
Mike  about  Ireland.  But  Mike  did  not  seem  to  be 
able  to  tell  him  much  that  was  of  interest.  They  were 

148 


HOME   SICKNESS 

all  very  poor — poorer,  perhaps,  than  when  he  left 
them. 

"  I  don't  think  anyone  except  myself  has  a  five  pound 
note  to  his  name." 

Bryden  hoped  he  felt  sufficiently  sorry  for  Mike. 
But  after  all  Mike's  life  and  prospects  mattered  little 
to  him.  He  had  come  back  in  search  of  health;  and 
he  felt  better  already;  the  milk  had  done  him  good, 
and  the  bacon  and  cabbage  in  the  pot  sent  forth  a 
savoury  odour.  The  Scullys  were  very  kind,  they 
pressed  him  to  make  a  good  meal;  a  few  weeks  of 
country  air  and  food,  they  said,  would  give  him  back 
the  health  he  had  lost  in  the  Bowery;  and  when 
Bryden  said  he  was  longing  for  a  smoke,  Mike  said 
there  was  no  better  sign  than  that.  During  his  long 
illness  he  had  never  wanted  to  smoke,  and  he  was  a 
confirmed  smoker. 

It  was  comfortable  to  sit  by  the  mild  peat  fire  watch- 
ing the  smoke  of  their  pipes  drifting  up  the  chimney, 
and  all  Bryden  wanted  was  to  be  let  alone ;  he  did  not 
want  to  hear  of  anyone's  misfortunes,  but  about  nine 
o'clock  a  number  of  villagers  came  in,  and  their  ap- 
pearance was  depressing.  Bryden  remembered  one  or 
two  of  them — he  used  to  know  them  very  well  when 
he  was  a  boy;  their  talk  was  as  depressing  as  their 
appearance,  and  he  could  feel  no  interest  whatever  in 
them.  He  was  not  moved  when  he  heard  that  Higgins 
the  stone-mason  was  dead ;  he  was  not  affected  when 
he  heard  that  Mary  Kelly,  who  used  to  go  to  do  the 
laundry  at  the  Big  House,  had  married;  he  was  only 
interested  when  he  heard  she  had  gone  to  America. 
No,  he  had  not  met  her  there,  America  is  a  big  place. 
Then  one  of  the  peasants  asked  him  if  he  remembered 

149 


HOME   SICKNESS 

Patsy  Carabine,  who  used  to  do  the  gardening  at  the 
Big  House.  Yes,  he  remembered  Patsy  well.  Patsy 
was  in  the  poor-house.  He  had  not  been  able  to  do 
any  work  on  account  of  his  arm ;  his  house  had  fallen 
in;  he  had  given  up  his  holding  and  gone  into  the 
poor-house.  All  this  was  very  sad,  and  to  avoid  hear- 
ing any  further  unpleasantness,  Bryden  began  to  tell 
them  about  America.  And  they  sat  round  listening  to 
him ;  but  all  the  talking  was  on  his  side ;  he  wearied 
of  it;  and  looking  round  the  group  he  recognised  a 
ragged  hunchback  with  grey  hair;  twenty  years  ago 
he  was  a  young  hunchback,  and,  turning  to  him, 
Bryden  asked  him  if  he  were  doing  well  with  his  five 
acres. 

"  Ah,  not  much.  This  has  been  a  bad  season.  The 
potatoes  failed ;  they  were  watery — there  is  no  diet  in 
them." 

These  peasants  were  all  agreed  that  they  could  make 
nothing  out  of  their  farms.  Their  regret  was  that  they 
had  not  gone  to  America  when  they  were  young ;  and 
after  striving  to  take  an  interest  in  the  fact  that 
O'Connor  had  lost  a  mare  and  foal  worth  forty  pounds 
Bryden  began  to  wish  himself  back  in  the  slum.  And 
when  they  left  the  house  he  wondered  if  every  evening 
would  be  like  the  present  one.  Mike  piled  fresh  sods 
on  the  fire,  and  he  hoped  it  would  show  enough  light  in 
the  loft  for  Bryden  to  undress  himself  by. 

The  cackling  of  some  geese  in  the  road  kept  him 
awake,  and  the  loneliness  of  the  country  seemed  to 
penetrate  to  his  bones,  and  to  freeze  the  marrow  in 
them.  There  was  a  bat  in  the  loft — a  dog  howled  in 
the  distance — and  then  he  drew  the  clothes  over  his 
head.  Never  had  he  been  so  unhappy,  and  the  sound 

150 


HOME  SICKNESS 

of  Mike  breathing  by  his  wife's  side  in  the  kitchen 
added  to  his  nervous  terror.  Then  he  dozed  a  little; 
and  lying  on  his  back  he  dreamed  he  was  awake,  and 
the  men  he  had  seen  sitting  round  the  fireside  that 
evening  seemed  to  him  like  spectres  come  out  of  some 
unknown  region  of  morass  and  reedy  tarn.  He 
stretched  out  his  hands  for  his  clothes,  determined  to 
fly  from  this  house,  but  remembering  the  lonely  road 
that  led  to  the  station  he  fell  back  on  his  pillow.  The 
geese  still  cackled,  but  he  was  too  tired  to  be  kept 
awake  any  longer.  He  seemed  to  have  been  asleep  only 
a  few  minutes  when  he  heard  Mike  calling  him.  Mike 
had  come  half  way  up  the  ladder  and  was  telling  him 
that  breakfast  was  ready.  "  What  kind  of  breakfast 
will  he  give  me?"  Bryden  asked  himself  as  he  pulled 
on  his  clothes.  There  were  tea  and  hot  griddle  cakes 
for  breakfast,  and  there  were  fresh  eggs;  there  was 
sunlight  in  the  kitchen  and  he  liked  to  hear  Mike  tell 
of  the  work  he  was  going  to  do  in  the  fields.  Mike 
rented  a  farm  of  about  fifteen  acres,  at  least  ten  of  it 
was  grass;  he  grew  an  acre  of  potatoes  and  some 
corn,  and  some  turnips  for  his  sheep.  He  had  a  nice 
bit  of  meadow,  and  he  took  down  his  scythe,  and  as  he 
put  the  whetstone  in  his  belt  Bryden  noticed  a  second 
scythe,  and  he  asked  Mike  if  he  should  go  down  with 
him  and  help  him  to  finish  the  field. 

"  You  haven't  done  any  mowing  this  many  a 
year;  I  don't  think  you'd  be  of  much  help.  You'd 
better  go  for  a  walk  by  the  lake,  but  you  may  come  in 
the  afternoon  if  you  like  and  help  to  turn  the  grass 
over." 

Bryden  was  afraid  he  would  find  the  lake  shore 
very  lonely,  but  the  magic  of  returning  health  is  the 


HOME  SICKNESS 

sufficient  distraction  for  the  convalescent,  and  the 
morning  passed  agreeably.  The  weather  was  still  and 
sunny.  He  could  hear  the  ducks  in  the  reeds.  The 
hours  dreamed  themselves  away,  and  it  became  his 
habit  to  go  to  the  lake  every  morning.  One  morning 
he  met  the  landlord,  and  they  walked  together,  talking 
of  the  country,  of  what  it  had  been,  and  the  ruin  it  was 
slipping  into.  James  Bryden  told  him  that  ill  health 
had  brought  him  back  to  Ireland;  and  the  landlord 
lent  him  his  boat,  and  Bryden  rowed  about  the  islands, 
and  resting  upon  his  oars  he  looked  at  the  old  castles, 
and  remembered  the  pre-historic  raiders  that  the  land- 
lord had  told  him  about.  He  came  across  the  stones 
to  which  the  lake  dwellers  had  tied  their  boats,  and 
these  signs  of  ancient  Ireland  were  pleasing  to  Bryden 
in  his  present  mood. 

As  well  as  the  great  lake  there  was  a  smaller  lake  in 
the  bog  where  the  villagers  cut  their  turf.  This  lake 
was  famous  for  its  pike,  and  the  landlord  allowed 
Bryden  to  fish  there,  and  one  evening  when  he  was 
looking  for  a  frog  with  which  to  bait  his  line  he  met 
Margaret  Dirken  driving  home  the  cows  for  the  milk- 
ing. Margaret  was  the  herdsman's  daughter,  and  she 
lived  in  a  cottage  near  the  Big  House;  but  she  came 
up  to  the  village  whenever  there  was  a  dance,  and 
Bryden  had  found  himself  opposite  to  her  in  the  reels. 
But  until  this  evening  he  had  had  little  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  her,  and  he  was  glad  to  speak  to  someone, 
for  the  evening  was  lonely,  and  they  stood  talking 
together. 

"  You're  getting  your  health  again,"  she  said. 
"  You'll  soon  be  leaving  us." 

"  I'm  in  no  hurry." 

152 


HOME  SICKNESS 

"  You're  grand  people  over  there ;  I  hear  a  man  is 
paid  four  dollars  a  day  for  his  work." 

"  And  how  much,"  said  James,  "  has  he  to  pay  for 
his  food  and  for  his  clothes?" 

Her  cheeks  were  bright  and  her  teeth  small,  white 
and  beautifully  even;  and  a  woman's  soul  looked  at 
Bryden  out  of  her  soft  Irish  eyes.  He  was  troubled 
and  turned  aside,  and  catching  sight  of  a  frog  looking 
at  him  out  of  a  tuft  of  grass  he  said : — 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  a  frog  to  put  upon  my 
pike  line." 

The  frog  jumped  right  and  left,  and  nearly  escaped 
in  some  bushes,  but  he  caught  it  and  returned  with  it 
in  his  hand. 

"  It  is  just  the  kind  of  frog  a  pike  will  like,"  he  said. 
"  Look  at  its  great  white  belly  and  its  bright  yellow 
back." 

And  without  more  ado  he  pushed  the  wire  to  which 
the  hook  was  fastened  through  the  frog's  fresh  body, 
and  dragging  it  through  the  mouth  he  passed  the 
hooks  through  the  hind  legs  and  tied  the  line  to  the 
end  of  the  wire. 

"  I  think,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  must  be  looking  after 
my  cows ;  it's  time  I  got  them  home." 

"  Won't  you  come  down  to  the  lake  while  I  set  my 
line?" 

She  thought  for  a  moment  and  said : — 

"  No,  I'll  see  you  from  here." 

He  went  down  to  the  reedy  tarn,  and  at  his  ap- 
proach several  snipe  got  up,  and  they  flew  above  his 
head  uttering  sharp  cries.  His  fishing-rod  was  a  long 
hazel  stick,  and  he  threw  the  frog  as  far  as  he  could 
into  the  lake.  In  doing  this  he  roused  some  wild 

153 


HOME   SICKNESS 

ducks ;  a  mallard  and  two  ducks  got  up,  and  they  flew 
towards  the  larger  lake.  Margaret  watched  them; 
they  flew  in  a  line  with  an  old  castle;  and  they  had 
not  disappeared  from  view  when  Bryden  came  towards 
her,  and  he  and  she  drove  the  cows  home  together 
that  evening. 

They  had  not  met  very  often  when  she  said,  "  James, 
you  had  better  not  come  here  so  often  calling  to  me." 

"  Don't  you  wish  me  to  come  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  wish  you  to  come  well  enough,  but  keeping 
company  is  not  the  custom  of  the  country,  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  talked  about." 

"  Are  you  afraid  the  priest  would  speak  against  us 
from  the  altar?" 

"  He  has  spoken  against  keeping  company,  but  it 
is  not  so  much  what  the  priest  says,  for  there  is  no 
harm  in  talking." 

"  But  if  you  are  going  to  be  married  there  is  no 
harm  in  walking  out  together." 

"  Well,  not  so  much,  but  marriages  are  made  dif- 
ferently in  these  parts;  there  is  not  much  courting 
here." 

And  next  day  it  was  known  in  the  village  that  James 
was  going  to  marry  Margaret  Dirken. 

His  desire  to  excel  the  boys  in  dancing  had  aroused 
much  gaiety  in  the  parish,  and  for  some  time  past 
there  had  been  dancing  in  every  house  where  there 
was  a  floor  fit  to  dance  upon ;  and  if  the  cottager  had 
no  money  to  pay  for  a  barrel  of  beer,  James  Bryden, 
who  had  money,  sent  him  a  barrel,  so  that  Margaret 
might  get  her  dance.  She  told  him  that  they  some- 
times crossed  over  into  another  parish  where  the 
priest  was  not  so  averse  to  dancing,  and  James  won- 

i54 


HOME   SICKNESS 

dered.  And  next  morning  at  Mass  he  wondered  at 
their  simple  fervour.  Some  of  them  held  their  hands 
above  their  heads  as  they  prayed,  and  all  this  was 
very  new  and  very  old  to  James  Bryden.  But  the 
obedience  of  these  people  to  their  priest  surprised 
him.  When  he  was  a  lad  they  had  not  been  so  obe- 
dient, or  he  had  forgotten  their  obedience;  and  he 
listened  in  mixed  anger  and  wonderment  to  the  priest 
who  was  scolding  his  parishioners,  speaking  to  them 
by  name,  saying  that  he  had  heard  there  was  dancing 
going  on  in  their  homes.  Worse  than  that,  he  said 
he  had  seen  boys  and  girls  loitering  about  the  roads, 
and  the  talk  that  went  on  was  of  one  kind — love. 
He  said  that  newspapers  containing  love-stories  were 
finding  their  way  into  the  people's  houses,  stories 
about  love,  in  which  there  was  nothing  elevating  or 
ennobling.  The  people  listened,  accepting  the  priest's 
opinion  without  question.  And  their  submission  was 
pathetic.  It  was  the  submission  of  a  primitive  people 
clinging  to  religious  authority,  and  Bryden  contrasted 
the  weakness  and  incompetence  of  the  people  about 
him  with  the  modern  restlessness  and  cold  energy  of 
the  people  he  had  left  behind  him. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  dancing,  a  knock  came 
to  the  door,  and  the  piper  stopped  playing,  and  the 
dancers  whispered: — 

"  Some  one  has  told  on  us ;  it  is  the  priest." 
And  the  awe-stricken  villagers  crowded  round  the 
cottage  fire,  afraid  to  open  the  door.  But  the  priest 
said  that  if  they  did  not  open  the  door  he  would  put 
his  shoulder  to  it  and  force  it  open.  Bryden  went 
towards  the  door,  saying  he  would  allow  no  one  to 
threaten  him,  priest  or  no  priest,  but  Margaret  caught 


HOME  SICKNESS 

his  arm  and  told  him  that  if  he  said  anything  to  the 
priest,  the  priest  would  speak  against  them  from  the 
altar,  and  they  would  be  shunned  by  the  neighbours. 
It  was  Mike  Scully  who  went  to  the  door  and  let  the 
priest  in,  and  he  came  in  saying  they  were  dancing 
their  souls  into  hell. 

"  I've  heard  of  your  goings  on,"  he  said — "  of  your 
beer-drinking  and  dancing.  I  will  not  have  it  in  my 
parish.  If  you  want  that  sort  of  thing  you  had  better 
go  to  America." 

"  If  that  is  intended  for  me,  sir,  I  will  go  back  to- 
morrow. Margaret  can  follow." 

"  It  isn't  the  dancing,  it's  the  drinking  I'm  opposed 
to,"  said  the  priest,  turning  to  Bryden. 

"  Well,  no  one  has  drunk  too  much,  sir,"  said  Bry- 
den. 

"  But  you'll  sit  here  drinking  all  night,"  and  the 
priest's  eyes  went  towards  the  corner  where  the  women 
had  gathered,  and  Bryden  felt  that  the  priest  looked 
on  the  women  as  more  dangerous  than  the  porter. 
"  It's  after  midnight,"  he  said,  taking  out  his  watch. 

By  Bryden's  watch  it  was  only  half-past  eleven,  and 
while  they  were  arguing  about  the  time  Mrs.  Scully 
offered  Bryden's  umbrella  to  the  priest,  for  in  his 
hurry  to  stop  the  dancing  the  priest  had  gone  out 
without  his ;  and,  as  if  to  show  Bryden  that  he  bore 
him  no  ill-will,  the  priest  accepted  the  loan  of  the 
umbrella,  for  he  was  thinking  of  the  big  marriage  fee 
that  Bryden  would  pay  him. 

"  I  shall  be  badly  off  for  the  umbrella  to-morrow," 
Bryden  said,  as  soon  as  the  priest  was  out  of  the 
house.  He  was  going  with  his  father-in-law  to  a  fair. 
His  father-in-law  was  learning  him  how  to  buy  a'nd 

156 


HOME   SICKNESS 

sell  cattle.  And  his  father-in-law  was  saying  that  the 
country  was  mending,  and  that  a  man  might  become 
rich  in  Ireland  if  he  only  had  a  little  capital.  Bryden 
had  the  capital,  and  Margaret  had  an  uncle  on  the 
other  side  of  the  lake  who  would  leave  her  all  he  had, 
that  would  be  fifty  pounds,  and  never  in  the  village 
of  Duncannon  had  a  young  couple  begun  life  with  so 
much  prospect  of  success  as  would  James  Bryden  and 
Margaret  Dirken. 

Some  time  after  Christmas  was  spoken  of  as  the 
best  time  for  the  marriage;  James  Bryden  said  that 
he  would  not  be  able  to  get  his  money  out  of  America 
before  the  spring.  The  delay  seemed  to  vex  him, 
and  he  seemed  anxious  to  be  married,  until  one  day 
he  received  a  letter  from  America,  from  a  man  who 
had  served  in  the  bar  with  him.  This  friend  wrote  to 
ask  Bryden  if  he  were  coming  back.  The  letter  was 
no  more  than  a  passing  wish  to  see  Bryden  again. 
Yet  Bryden  stood  looking  at  it,  and  everyone  won- 
dered what  could  be  in  the  letter.  It  seemed  mo- 
mentous, and  they  hardly  believed  him  when  he  said 
it  was  from  a  friend  who  wanted  to  know  if  his  health 
were  better.  He  tried  to  forget  the  letter,  and  he 
looked  at  the  worn  fields,  divided  by  walls  of  loose 
stones,  and  a  great  longing  came  upon  him. 

The  smell  of  the  Bowery  slum  had  come  across  the 
Atlantic,  and  had  found  him  out  in  this  western  head- 
land ;  and  one  night  he  awoke  from  a  dream  in  which 
he  was  hurling  some  drunken  customer  through  the 
open  doors  into  the  darkness.  He  had  seen  his  friend 
in  his  white  duck  jacket  throwing  drink  from  glass 
into  glass  amid  the  din  of  voices  and  strange  accents ; 
he  had  heard  the  clang  of  money  as  it  was  swept 

iS7 


HOME   SICKNESS 

into  the  till,  and  his  sense  sickened  for  the  bar-room. 
But  how  should  he  tell  Margaret  Dirken  that  he 
could  not  marry  her?  She  had  built  her  life  upon 
this  marriage.  He  could  not  tell  her  that  he  would 
not  marry  her  .  .  .  yet  he  must  go.  He  felt  as  if  he 
were  being  hunted;  the  thought  that  he  must  tell 
Margaret  that  he  could  not  marry  her  hunted  him 
day  after  day  as  a  weasel  hunts  a  rabbit.  Again  and 
again  he  went  to  meet  her  with  the  intention  of  telling 
her  that  he  did  not  love  her,  that  their  lives  were  not 
for  one  another,  that  it  had  all  been  a  mistake,  and 
that  happily  he  had  found  out  it  was  a  mistake  soon 
enough.  But  Margaret,  as  if  she  guessed  what  he 
was  about  to  speak  of,  threw  her  arms  about  him 
and  begged  him  to  say  he  loved  her,  and  that  they 
would  be  married  at  once.  He  agreed  that  he  loved 
her,  and  that  they  would  be  married  at  once.  But 
he  had  not  left  her  many  minutes  before  the  feeling 
came  upon  him  that  he  could  not  marry  her — that  he 
must  go  away.  The  smell  of  the  bar-room  hunted 
him  down.  Was  it  for  the  sake  of  the  money  that 
he  might  make  there  that  he  wished  to  go  back? 
No,  it  was  not  the  money.  What  then?  His  eyes 
fell  on  the  bleak  country,  on  the  little  fields  divided 
by  bleak  walls ;  he  remembered  the  pathetic  ignorance 
of  the  people,  and  it  was  these  things  that  he  could 
not  endure.  It  was  the  priest  who  came  to  forbid  the 
dancing.  Yes,  it  was  the  priest.  As  he  stood  look- 
ing at  the  line  of  the  hills  the  bar-room  seemed  by 
him.  He  heard  the  politicians,  and  the  excitement 
of  politics  was  in  his  blood  again.  He  must  go  away 
from  this  place — he  must  get  back  to  the  bar-room. 
Looking  up  he  saw  the  scanty  orchard,  and  he  hated 

158 


HOME  SICKNESS 

the  spare  road  that  led  to  the  village,  and  he  hated 
the  little  hill  at  the  top  of  which  the  village  began, 
and  he  hated  more  than  all  other  places  the  house 
where  he  was  to  live  with  Margaret  Dirken — if  he 
married  her.  He  could  see  it  from  where  he  stood — 
by  the  edge  of  the  lake,  with  twenty  acres  of  pasture 
land  about  it,  for  the  landlord  had  given  up  part  of 
his  demesne  land  to  them. 

He  caught  sight  of  Margaret,  and  he  called  to  her  to 
come  through  the  stile. 

"  I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  America." 

"  About  the  money  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  about  the  money.  But  I  shall  have  to  go 
over  there." 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  seeking  for  words;  and 
she  guessed  from  his  embarrassment  that  he  would 
say  to  her  that  he  must  go  to  America  before  they 
were  married. 

"  Do  you  mean,  James,  you  will  have  to  go  at 
once  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  at  once.  But  I  shall  come  back 
in  time  to  be  married  in  August.  It  will  only /mean 
delaying  our  marriage  a  month." 

They  walked  on  a  little  way  talking;  every  step  he 
took  James  felt  that  he  was  a  step  nearer  the  Bowery 
slum.  And  when  they  came  to  the  gate  Bryden  said : — 

"  I  must  hasten  or  I  shall  miss  the  train." 

"  But,"  she  said,  "  you  are  not  going  now — you  are 
not  going  to-day?" 

"  Yes,  this  morning.  It  is  seven  miles.  I  shall 
have  to  hurry  not  to  miss  the  train." 

And  then  she  asked  him  if  he  would  ever  come  back. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  am  coming  back." 


"If  you  are  coming  back,  James,  why  not  let  me 
go  with  you?" 

"  You  could  not  walk  fast  enough.  We  should  miss 
the  train." 

"  One  moment,  James.  Don't  make  me  suffer ;  tell 
me  the  truth.  You  are  not  coming  back.  Your  clothes 
— where  shall  I  send  them?" 

He  hurried  away,  hoping  he  would  come  back.  He 
tried  to  think  that  he  liked  the  country  he  was  leaving, 
that  it  would  be  better  to  have  a  farmhouse  and  live 
there  with  Margaret  Dirken  than  to  serve  drinks  be- 
hind a  counter  in  the  Bowery.  He  did  not  think  he 
was  telling  her  a  lie  when  he  said  he  was  coming 
back.  Her  offer  to  forward  his  clothes  touched  his 
heart,  and  at  the  end  of  the  road  he  stood  and  asked 
himself  if  he  should  go  back  to  her.  He  would  miss 
the  train  if  he  waited  another  minute,  and  he  ran  on. 
And  he  would  have  missed  the  train  if  he  had  not 
met  a  car.  Once  he  was  on  the  car  he  felt  himself 
safe — the  country  was  already  behind  him.  The  train 
and  the  boat  at  Cork  were  mere  formulae;  he  was 
already  in  America. 

The  moment  he  landed  he  felt  the  thrill  of  home 
that  he  had  not  found  in  his  native  village,  and  he 
wondered  how  it  was  that  the  smell  of  the  bar  seemed 
more  natural  than  the  smell  of  the  fields,  and  the  roar 
of  crowds  more  welcome  than  the  silence  of  the  lake's 
edge.  However,  he  offered  up  a  thanksgiving  for  his 
escape,  and  entered  into  negotiations  for  the  purchase 
of  the  bar-room. 

******** 

He  took  a  wife,  she  bore  him  sons  and  daughters, 
the  bar-room  prospered,  property  came  and  went;  he 

160 


HOME  SICKNESS 

grew  old,  his  wife  died,  he  retired  from  business,  and 
reached  the  age  when  a  man  begins  to  feel  there  are 
not  many  years  in  front  of  him,  and  that  all  he  has 
had  to  do  in  life  has  been  done.  His  children  married, 
lonesomeness  began  to  creep  about  him;  in  the  even- 
ing, when  he  looked  into  the  fire-light,  a  vague,  ten- 
der reverie  floated  up,  and  Margaret's  soft  eyes  and 
name  vivified  the  dusk.  His  wife  and  children  passed 
out  of  mind,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  memory 
was  the  only  real  thing  he  possessed,  and  the  desire  to 
see  Margaret  again  grew  intense.  But  she  was  an 
old  woman,  she  had  married,  maybe  she  was  dead. 
Well,  he  would  like  to  be  buried  in  the  village  where 
he  was  born. 

There  is  an  unchanging,  silent  life  within  every 
man  that  none  knows  but  himself,  and  his  unchanging, 
silent  life  was  his  memory  of  Margaret  Dirken.  The 
bar-room  was  forgotten  and  all  that  concerned  it, 
and  the  things  he  saw  most  clearly  were  the  green 
hillside,  and  the  bog  lake  and  the  rushes  about  it, 
and  the  greater  lake  in  the  distance,  and  behind  it 
the  blue  lines  of  wandering  hills. 


ii  161 


A  LETTER  TO  ROME 


A    LETTER    TO    ROME 

ONE  morning  the  priest's  housekeeper  mentioned 
as  she  gathered  up  the  breakfast  things,  that  Mike 
Mulhare  had  refused  to  let  his  daughter  Catherine 
marry  James  Murdoch  until  he  had  earned  the  price 
of  a  pig. 

"  This  is  bad  news,"  said  the  priest,  and  he  laid 
down  the  newspaper. 

"  And  he  waited  for  her  all  the  summer !  Wasn't 
it  in  February  last  that  he  came  out  of  the  poor- 
house?  And  the  fine  cabin  he  has  built  for  her! 
He'll  be  that  lonesome,  he'll  be  going  to  America." 

"  To  America !"   said  the  priest. 

"  Maybe  it  will  be  going  back  to  the  poor-house 
he'll  be,  for  he'll  never  earn  the  price  of  his  passage 
at  the  relief  works." 

The  priest  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as  if  he  did 
not  catch  her  meaning,  and  then  a  knock  came  at  the 
door,  and  he  said: — 

"  The  inspector  is  here,  and  there  are  people  wait- 
ing for  me." 

And  while  he  was  distributing  the  clothes  he  had 
received  from  Manchester,  he  argued  with  the  in- 
spector as  to  the  direction  the  new  road  should  take; 
and  when  he  came  back  from  the  relief  works,  there 
was  his  dinner.  He  was  busy  writing  letters  all  the 
afternoon;  it  was  not  until  he  had  handed  them  to 
the  post-mistress  that  his  mind  was  free  to  think  of 
poor  James  Murdoch,  who  had  built  a  cabin  at  the 
end  of  one  of  the  famine  roads  in  a  hollow  out  of  the 

165 


A   LETTER   TO  ROME 

way  of  the  wind.     From  a  long  way  off  the  priest 
could  see  him  digging  his  patch  of  bog. 

And  when  he  caught  sight  of  the  priest  he  stuck 
his  spade  in  the  ground  and  came  to  meet  him.  He 
wore  a  pair  of  torn  corduroy  trousers  put  of  which 
two  long  naked  feet  appeared ;  and  there  was  a  shirt, 
but  it  was  torn,  the  wind  thrilled  in  a  naked  breast, 
and  the  priest  thought  his  housekeeper  was  right,  that 
James  must  go  back  to  the  poor-house.  There  was  a 
wild  look  in  his  eyes,  and  he  seemed  to  the  priest  like 
some  lonely  animal  just  come  out  of  its  burrow.  His 
mud  cabin  was  full  of  peat  smoke,  there  were  pools 
of  green  water  about  it,  but  it  had  been  dry,  he  said, 
all  the  summer;  and  he  had  intended  to  make  a 
drain. 

"  It's  hard  luck,  your  reverence,  and  after  building 
this  house  for  her.  There's  a  bit  of  smoke  in  the 
house  now,  but  if  I  got  Catherine  I  wouldn't  be  long 
making  a  chimney.  I  told  Mike  he  should  give 
Catherine  a  pig  for  her  fortune,  but  he  said  he  would 
give  her  a  calf  when  I  bought  the  pig,  and  I  said, 
'  Haven't  I  built  a  fine  house  and  wouldn't  it  be  a 
fine  one  to  rear  him  in.' " 

And  they  walked  through  the  bog,  James  talking 
to  the  priest  all  the  way,  for  it  was  seldom  he  had 
anyone  to  talk  to. 

"  Now  I  must  not  take  you  any  further  from  your 
digging." 

"  Sure  there's  time  enough,"  said  James,  "  amn't  I 
there  all  day." 

"  I'll  go  and  see  Mike  Mulhare  myself,"  said  the 
priest. 

"  Long  life  to  your  reverence." 
166 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

"  And  I  will  try  to  get  you  the  price  of  the  pig." 
"  Ah,  'tis  your  reverence  that's  good  to  us." 
The  priest  stood  looking  after  him,  wondering  if 
he  would  give  up  life  as  a  bad  job  and  go  back  to  the 
poor-house.     But  while  thinking  of  James  Murdoch, 
he  was  conscious  of  an  idea;    it  was  still  dim  and 
distant,  but  every  moment  it  emerged,  it  was  taking 
shape. 

Ireland  was  passing  away.  In  five-and-twenty 
years,  if  some  great  change  did  not  take  place,  Ire- 
land would  be  a  Protestant  country.  "  There  is  no 
one  in  this  parish  except  myself  who  has  a  decent 
house  to  live  in,"  he  murmured;  and  then  an  idea 
broke  suddenly  in  his  mind.  The  Greek  priests  were 
married.  They  had  been  allowed  to  retain  their  wives 
in  order  to  avoid  a  schism.  Rome  had  always  known 
how  to  adapt  herself  to  circumstances,  and  there  was 
no  doubt  that  if  Rome  knew  Ireland's  need  of  children 
Rome  would  consider  the  revocation  of  the  decree — 
the  clergy  must  marry. 

He  walked  very  slowly,  and  looking  through  the 
peat  stacks  he  saw  St.  Peter's  rising  above  a  rim  of 
pearl-coloured  mountains,  and  before  he  was  aware 
of  it  he  had  begun  to  consider  how  he  might  write 
a  letter  to  Rome.  Was  it  not  a  fact  that  celibacy 
had  only  been  made  obligatory  in  Ireland  in  the  twelfth 
century  ? 

When  he  returned  home,  his  housekeper  was 
anxious  to  hear  about  James  Murdoch,  but  the  priest 
sat  possessed  by  the  thought  of  Ireland  becoming  a 
Protestant  country;  and  he  had  not  moved  out  of 
his  chair  when  the  servant  came  in  with  his  tea.  He 
drank  his  tea  mechanically,  and  walked  up  and  down 

167 


A   LETTER   TO  ROME 

the  room,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  took  up 
his  knitting.  But  that  evening  he  could  not  knit, 
and  he  laid  the  stocking  aside  so  that  he  might 
think. 

Of  what  good  would  his  letter  be?  A  letter  from 
a  poor  parish  priest  asking  that  one  of  the  most 
ancient  decrees  should  be  revoked!  The  Pope's  sec- 
retary would  pitch  his  letter  into  the  waste  paper 
basket.  The  Pope  would  be  only  told  of  its  con- 
tents !  The  cardinals  are  men  whose  thoughts  move 
up  and  down  certain  narrow  ways,  clever  men  no 
doubt,  but  clever  men  are  often  the  dupes  of  conven- 
tions. All  men  who  live  in  the  world  accept  the 
conventions  as  truths.  And  the  idea  of  this  change 
in  ecclesiastical  law  had  come  to  him  because  he  lived 
in  a  waste  bog. 

But  was  he  going  to  write  the  letter?  He  could 
not  answer  the  question!  Yes,  he  knew  that  sooner 
or  later  he  must  write  this  letter.  "  Instinct,"  he  said, 
"  is  a  surer  guide  than  logic.  My  letter  to  Rome  was 
a  sudden  revelation."  The  idea  had  fallen  as  it  were 
out  of  the  air,  and  now  as  he  sat  knitting  by  his  own 
fireside  it  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  corners  of  the 
room. 

"  When  you  were  at  Rathowen,"  his  idea  said,  "  you 
heard  the  clergy  lament  that  the  people  were  leaving 
the  country.  You  heard  the  Bishop  and  many  elo- 
quent men  speak  on  the  subject,  but  their  words 
meant  little,  but  on  the  bog  road  the  remedy  was 
revealed  to  you. 

"  The  remedy  lies  with  the  priesthood.  If  each 
priest  were  to  take  a  wife  about  four  thousand  chil- 
dren would  be  born  within  the  year,  forty  thousand 

168 


A   LETTER   TO  ROME 

children  would  be  added  to  the  birth-rate  in  ten  years. 
Ireland  would  be  saved  by  her  priesthood!" 

The  truth  of  this  estimate  seemed  beyond  question, 
nevertheless,  Father  MacTurnan  found  it  difficult  to 
reconcile  himself  to  the  idea  of  a  married  clergy. 
One  is  always  the  dupe  of  prejudice.  He  knew  that 
and  went  on  thinking.  The  priests  live  in  the  best 
houses,  eat  the  best  food,  wear  the  best  clothes; 
they  are  indeed  the  flower  of  the  nation,  and  would 
produce  magnificent  sons  and  daughters.  And  who 
could  bring  up  their  children  according  to  the  teach- 
ing of  our  holy  church  as  well  as  priests? 

So  did  his  idea  speak  to  him,  unfolding  itself  in 
rich  variety  every  evening.  Very  soon  he  realised 
that  other  advantages  would  accrue,  beyond  the  ad- 
dition of  forty  thousand  children  to  the  birth-rate, 
and  one  advantage  that  seemed  to  him  to  exceed  the 
original  advantage  would  be  the  nationalisation  of 
religion,  the  formation  of  an  Irish  Catholicism  suited 
to  the  ideas  and  needs  of  the  Irish  people. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  century  the  Irish  lost  their 
language,  in  the  middle  of  the  century  'the  character- 
istic aspects  of  their  religion.  He  remembered  that  it 
was  Cardinal  Cullen  who  had  denationalised  religion 
in  Ireland.  But  everyone  recognised  his  mistake, 
and  how  could  a  church  be  nationalised  better  than 
by  the  rescission  of  the  decree?  Wives  and  the  be- 
getting of  children  would  attach  the  priests  to  the 
soil  of  Ireland.  It  could  not  be  said  that  anyone 
loved  his  country  who  did  not  contribute  to  its  main- 
tenance. He  remembered  that  the  priests  leave  Ire- 
land on  foreign  missions,  and  he  said :  "  Every  Cath- 
olic who  leaves  Ireland  helps  to  bring  about  the  very 

169 


A   LETTER   TO  ROME 

thing  that  Ireland  has  been  struggling  against  for 
centuries — Protestantism." 

This  idea  talked  to  him,  and,  one  evening,  it  said, 
"  Religion,  like  everything  else,  must  be  national," 
and  it  led  him  to  contrast  cosmopolitanism  with  pa- 
rochialism. "  Religion,  like  art,  came  out  of  parishes," 
he  said.  Some  great  force  was  behind  him.  He  must 
write!  He  must  write.  .  .  . 

He  dropped  the  ink  over  the  table  and  over  the 
paper,  he  jotted  down  his  ideas  in  the  first  words  that 
came  to  him  until  midnight;  he  could  see  his  letter 
in  all  its  different  parts,  and  when  he  slept  it  floated 
through  his  sleep. 

"  I  must  have  a  clear  copy  of  it  before  I  begin  the 
Latin  translation." 

He  had  written  the  English  text  thinking  of  the 
Latin  that  would  come  after,  and  very  conscious  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  written  no  Latin  since  he  had 
left  Maynooth,  and  that  a  bad  translation  would  dis- 
credit his  ideas  in  the  eyes  of  the  Pope's  secretary, 
who  was  doubtless  a  great  Latin  scholar. 

"  The  Irish  priests  have  always  been  good  Latin- 
ists,"  he  murmured  as  he  hunted  through  the  diction- 
ary. 

The  table  was  littered  with  books,  for  he  had  found 
it  necessary  to  create  a  Latin  atmosphere  before  be- 
ginning his  translation.  He  worked  principally  at 
night,  and  one  morning  about  three  he  finished  his 
translation,  and  getting  up  from  his  chair  he  walked 
to  the  whitening  window.  His  eyes  pained  him,  and 
he  decided  he  would  postpone  reading  over  what  he 
had  written  till  morning. 

His  illusions  regarding  his  Latin  were  broken.  He 
170 


A   LETTER   TO  ROME 

had  laid  his  manuscript  on  a  table  by  his  bedside, 
and  on  awakening  he  had  reached  out  his  hand  for  it, 
but  he  had  not  read  a  page  when  he  dropped  it;  and 
the  manuscript  lay  on  the  floor  while  he  dressed.  He 
went  into  his  breakfast,  and  when  he  had  eaten  his 
breakfast  his  nerve  failed  him.  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  fetch  the  manuscript,  and  it  was  his  house- 
keeper who  brought  it  to  him. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  it  is  tasteless  as  the  gruel  that 
poor  James  Murdoch  is  eating."  And  taking  a  vol- 
ume from  the  table — "  St.  Augustine's  Confessions" — 
he  said,  "  what  diet  there  is  here !" 

He  stood  reading.  There  was  no  idiom,  he  had 
used  Latin  words  instead  of  English.  At  last  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  wheels  of  a  car  stopping  at  his 
door.  Father  Meehan !  Meehan  could  revise  his 
Latin!  None  had  written  such  good  Latin  at  May- 
nooth  as  Meehan. 

"  My  dear  Meehan,  this  is  indeed  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise." 

"  I  thought  I'd  like  to  see  you.  I  drove  over.  But — 
I  am  not  disturbing  you.  .  .  .  You've  taken  to  read- 
ing again.  St.  Augustine !  And  you're  writing  in 
Latin!" 

Father  James's  face  grew  red,  and  he  took  the  manu- 
script out  of  his  friend's  hand. 

"  No,  you  mustn't  look  at  that." 

And  then  the  temptation  to  ask  him  to  overlook 
certain  passages  made  him  change  his  mind. 

"  I  was  never  much  of  a  Latin  scholar." 

"  And  you  want  me  to  overlook  your  Latin  for  you. 
But  why  are  you  writing  Latin?" 

"  Because  I  am  writing  to  the  Pope.  I  was  at  first 
171 


A   LETTER   TO  ROME 

a  little  doubtful,  but  the  more  I  thought  of  this  letter 
the  more  necessary  it  seemed  to  me." 

"  And  what  are  you  writing  to  the  Pope  about  ?" 

"  You  see  Ireland  is  going  to  become  a  Protestant 
country." 

"  Is  it?"  said  Father  Meehan,  and  he  listened  a 
little  while.  Then,  interrupting  his  friend,  he  said : — 

"  I've  heard  enough.  Now,  I  strongly  advise  you 
not  to  send  this  letter.  We  have  known  each  other 
all  our  lives.  Now  my  dear  MacTurnan " 

Father  Michael  talked  eagerly,  and  Father  MacTur- 
nan sat  listening.  At  last  Father  Meehan  saw  that 
his  arguments  were  producing  no  effect,  and  he 
said : — 

"  You  don't  agree  with  me." 

"  It  isn't  that  I  don't  agree  with  you.  You  have 
spoken  admirably  from  your  point  of  view,  but  our 
points  of  view  are  different." 

"  Take  your  papers  away,  burn  them !" 

Then,  thinking  his  words  were  harsh,  he  laid  his 
hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder  and  said: — 

"  My  dear  MacTurnan,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  send 
this  letter." 

Father  James  did  not  answer;  the  silence  grew 
painful,  and  Father  Michael  asked  Father  James  to 
show  him  the  relief  works  that  the  Government  had 
ordered. 

They  walked  to  where  the  poor  people  were  work- 
ing, but  important  as  these  works  were  the  letter  to 
Rome  seemed  more  important  to  Father  Michael,  and 
he  said: — 

"  My  good  friend,  there  isn't  a  girl  that  would 
marry  us ;  now  is  there  ?  There  isn't  a  girl  in  Ireland 

172 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

who  would  touch  us  with  a  forty  foot  pole.  Would 
you  have  the  Pope  release  the  nuns  from  their  vows  ?" 

"  I  think  exceptions  should  be  made  in  favour  of 
those  in  orders.  But  I  think  it  would  be  for  the  good 
of  Ireland  if  the  secular  clergy  were  married." 

"  That's  not  my  point.  My  point  is  that  even  if 
the  decree  were  rescinded  we  should  not  be  able  to 
get  wives.  You've  been  looking  too  long  in  the  waste, 
my  dear  friend.  You've  lost  yourself  in  a  dream. 
We  shouldn't  get  a  penny.  Our  parishioners  would 
say,  '  Why  should  we  support  that  fellow  and  his 
family?'  That's  what  they'd  say." 

"  We  should  be  poor,  no  doubt,"  said  Father  James. 
"  But  not  so  poor  as  our  parishioners.  My  parish- 
ioners eat  yellow  meal,  and  I  eat  eggs  and  live  in  a 
good  house." 

"  We  are  educated  men,  and  should  live  in  better 
houses." 

"  The  greatest  saints  lived  in  deserts." 

And  so  the  argument  went  on  until  the  time  came 
to  say  good-bye,  and  then  Father  James  said : — 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  give  me  a  lift  on  your 
car.  I  want  to  go  to  the  post-office." 

"  To  post  your  letter?" 

"  The  idea  came  to  me — it  came  swiftly  like  a 
lightning  flash,  and  I  can't  believe  that  it  was  an 
accident.  If  it  had  fallen  into  your  mind  with  the 
suddenness  that  it  fell  into  mine,  you  would  believe 
that  it  was  an  inspiration." 

"  It  would  take  a  great  deal  to  make  me  believe  I 
was  inspired,"  said  Father  Michael,  and  he  watched 
Father  James  go  into  the  post-office  to  register  his 
letter. 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

As  he  went  home  Father  James  met  a  long  string  of 
peasants  returning  from  their  work.  The  last  was 
Norah  Flynn,  and  the  priest  blushed  deeply.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  looked  on  one  of  his  parishioners 
in  the  light  of  a  possible  spouse ;  he  entered  his  house 
frightened,  and  when  he  looked  round  his  parlour  he 
asked  himself  if  the  day  would  come  when  he  should 
see  Norah  Flynn  sitting  opposite  to  him  in  his  arm- 
chair. And  his  face  flushed  deeper  when  he  looked 
towards  the  bedroom  door,  and  he  fell  on  his  knees 
and  prayed  that  God's  will  might  be  made  known  to 
him. 

During  the  night  he  awoke  many  times,  and  the 
dream  that  had  awakened  him  continued  when  he  had 
left  his  bed,  and  he  wandered  round  and  round  the 
room  in  the  darkness,  seeking  a  way.  At  last  he 
reached  the  window  and  drew  the  curtain,  and  saw  the 
dim  dawn  opening  out  over  the  bog. 

"  Thank  God,"  he  said,  "  it  was  only  a  dream — only 
a  dream." 

And  lying  down  he  fell  asleep,  but  immediately 
another  dream  as  horrible  as  the  first  appeared,  and  his 
housekeeper  heard  him  beating  on  the  walls. 

"  Only  a  dream,  only  a  dream,"  he  said. 

He  lay  awake,  not  daring  to  sleep  lest  he  might 
dream.  And  it  was  about  seven  o'clock  when  he  heard 
his  housekeeper  telling  him  that  the  inspector  had  come 
to  tell  him  they  must  decide  what  direction  the  new 
road  should  take.  In  the  inspector's  opinion  it  should 
run  parallel  with  the  old  road.  To  continue  the  old 
road  two  miles  further  would  involve  extra  labour; 
the  people  would  have  to  go  further  to  their  work,  and 
the  stones  would  have  to  be  drawn  further.  The  priest 

i74 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

held  that  the  extra  labour  was  of  secondary  importance. 
He  said  that  to  make  two  roads  running  parallel  with 
each  other  would  be  a  wanton  humiliation  to  the  people. 

But  the  inspector  could  not  appreciate  the  priest's 
arguments.  He  held  that  the  people  were  thinking 
only  how  they  might  earn  enough  money  to  fill  their 
bellies. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  I  don't  agree  with  you," 
said  the  priest.  "  Better  go  in  the  opposite  direction 
and  make  a  road  to  the  sea." 

"  Well,  your  reverence,  the  Government  do  not  wish 
to  engage  upon  any  work  that  will  benefit  any  special 
class.  These  are  my  instructions." 

"  A  road  to  the  sea  will  benefit  no  one.  ...  I  see 
you  are  thinking  of  the  landlord.  But  there  is  no 
harbour ;  no  boat  ever  comes  into  that  flat,  waste  sea." 

"  Well,  your  reverence,  one  of  these  days  a  harbour 
may  be  made,  whereas  an  arch  would  look  well  in  the 
middle  of  the  bog,  and  the  people  would  not  have  to  go 
far  to  their  work." 

"  No,  no.  A  road  to  the  sea  will  be  quite  useless ; 
but  its  futility  will  not  be  apparent — at  least,  not  so 
apparent — and  the  people's  hearts  will  not  be  broken." 

The  inspector  seemed  a  little  doubtful,  but  the  priest 
assured  him  that  the  futility  of  the  road  would  satisfy 
English  ministers. 

"And  yet  these  English  ministers,"  the  priest  re- 
flected, "  are  not  stupid  men ;  they  are  merely  men 
blinded  by  theory  and  prejudice,  as  all  men  are  who 
live  in  the  world.  Their  folly  will  be  apparent  to  the 
next  generation,  and  so  on  and  so  on  for  ever  and 
ever,  world  without  end." 

"  And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  the  priest  said,  "  while  the 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

people  are  earning  their  living  on  these  roads  their 
fields  will  be  lying  idle,  and  there  will  be  no  crops  next 
year." 

Father  MacTurnan  began  to  think  of  the  cardinals 
and  the  transaction  of  business  in  the  Vatican ;  car- 
dinals and  ministers  alike  are  the  dupes  of  convention. 
Only  those  who  are  estranged  from  habits  and  customs 
can  think  straightforward. 

"  If,  instead  of  insisting  on  these  absurd  roads,  the 
Government  would  give  me  the  money,  I  should  be 
able  to  feed  the  people  at  a  cost  of  about  a  penny  a  day, 
and  they  would  be  able  to  sow  their  potatoes.  And  if 
only  the  cardinals  would  consider  the  rescission  of  the 
decree  on  its  merits  Ireland  would  be  saved  from  Prot- 
estantism." 

Some  cardinal  was  preparing  an  answer — an  answer 
might  be  even  in  the  post.  Rome  might  not  think  his 
letter  worthy  of  an  answer. 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  inspector  called  to  show 
him  a  letter  he  had  just  received  from  the  Board  of 
Works,  and  Father  James  had  to  write  many  letters 
and  had  to  go  to  Dublin,  and  in  the  excitement  of  these 
philanthropic  activities  the  emigration  question  was 
forgotten.  He  was  talking  to  the  inspector  about  the 
possibility  of  obtaining  a  harbour  when  the  postman 
handed  him  a  letter. 

"  This  is  a  letter  from  Father  Moran.  The  Bishop 
wishes  to  see  me.  We  will  continue  the  conversation 
to-morrow.  It  is  eight  miles  to  Rathowen,  and  how 
much  further  is  the  Palace  ?" 

"  A  good  seven,"  said  the  inspector.  "  You're  not 
going  to  walk  it,  your  reverence?" 

"Why  not?  In  four  hours  I  shall  be  there."  He 
176 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

looked  at  his  boots  first,  and  hoped  they  would  hold 
together ;  and  then  he  looked  at  the  sky,  and  hoped  it 
would  not  rain. 

The  sky  was  dim;  all  the  light  seemed  to  be  upon 
the  earth ;  a  soft,  vague  sunlight  floated  over  the  bog. 
Now  and  again  a  yellow-hammer  rose  above  the  tufts 
of  coarse  grass  and  flew  a  little  way.  A  line  of  pearl- 
coloured  mountains  showed  above  the  low  horizon,  and 
he  had  walked  eight  miles  before  he  saw  a  pine-wood. 
Some  hundred  yards  further  on  there  was  a  green  field, 
but  under  the  green  sod  there  was  peat,  and  a  man  and 
a  boy  were  cutting  it.  The  heather  appeared  again, 
and  he  had  walked  ten  miles  before  he  was  clear  of 
whins  and  heather. 

He  walked  on,  thinking  of  his  interview  with  the 
Bishop,  and  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  journey  when 
he  noticed  that  one  of  his  shoes  had  come  unsewn,  and 
he  stopped  at  a  cabin ;  and  while  the  woman  was  look- 
ing for  a  needle  and  thread  he  mopped  his  face  with  a 
great  red  handkerchief  that  he  kept  in  the  pocket  of 
his  threadbare  coat — a  coat  that  had  once  been  black, 
but  had  grown  green  with  age  and  weather.  He  had 
outwalked  himself,  and  feeling  he  would  be  tired,  and 
not  well  able  to  answer  the  points  that  the  Bishop 
would  raise,  he  decided  to  rest  awhile.  The  woman 
had  found  some  beeswax,  and  he  stopped  half  an  hour 
stitching  his  shoe  under  the  hawthorn  that  grew  beside 
the  cabin. 

He  was  still  two  miles  from  the  Palace,  and  this  last 
two  miles  proved  very  long.  He  arrived  footsore  and 
covered  with  dust,  and  he  was  so  tired  that  he  could 
hardly  get  up  from  his  chair  to  receive  Father  Moran 
when  he  came  into  the  parlour. 
12  177 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

"  You  seem  to  have  walked  a  long  way,  Father 
MacTurnan." 

"  About  fifteen  miles.  I  shall  be  all  right  presently. 
I  suppose  his  Grace  does  not  want  to  see  me  at  once." 

"  Well,  that's  just  it.  His  Grace  sent  me  to  say  he 
would  see  you  at  once.  He  expected  you  earlier." 

"  I  started  the  moment  I  received  his  Grace's  letter. 
I  suppose  his  Grace  wishes  to  see  me  regarding  my 
letter  to  Rome." 

The  secretary  hesitated,  coughed,  and  Father  Mac- 
Turnan wondered  why  Father  Moran  looked  at  him  so 
intently.  He  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  saying  that 
his  Grace  was  sorry  that  Father  MacTurnan  had  had 
so  long  a  walk.  He  hoped  that  he  would  rest  awhile 
and  partake  of  some  refreshment.  .  .  .  The  servant 
brought  in  some  wine  and  sandwiches,  and  the  secre- 
tary returned  in  half  an  hour.  His  Grace  was  now 
ready  to  receive  him.  Father  Moran  opened  the  library 
door,  and  Father  MacTurnan  saw  the  Bishop — a  short, 
alert  man,  about  fifty-five,  with  a  sharp  nose  and  grey 
eyes  and  bushy  eyebrows.  He  popped  about  the  room 
and  gave  his  secretary  many  orders.  Father  Mac- 
Turnan wondered  if  the  Bishop  would  ever  finish  talk- 
ing to  his  secretary.  He  seemed  to  have  finished,  but 
a  thought  suddenly  struck  him,  and  he  followed  his 
secretary  to  the  door,  and  Father  MacTurnan  began  to 
fear  that  the  Pope  had  not  decided  to  place  the  Irish 
clergy  on  the  same  footing  as  the  Greek  clergy.  If  he 
had,  the  Bishop's  interest  in  these  many  various 
matters  would  have  subsided;  his  mind  would  be 
engrossed  by  the  larger  issue.  On  returning  from  the 
door  his  Grace  passed  Father  MacTurnan  without 
speaking  to  him,  and  going  to  his  writing  table  he 

178 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

began  to  search  amid  his  papers.    At  last  Father  Mac- 
Turnan  said: — 

"  Maybe  your  Grace  is  looking  for  my  letter  to 
Rome?" 

"  Yes,"  said  his  Grace,  "  do  you  see  it?" 

"  It's  under  your  Grace's  hand,  those  blue  papers." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  and  his  Grace  leaned  back  in  his  arm- 
chair, leaving  Father  MacTurnan  standing. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,  Father  MacTurnan  ?"  he  said 
casually.  "  You've  been  writing  to  Rome,  I  see,  advo- 
cating the  revocation  of  the  decree  of  celibacy.  There's 
no  doubt  the  emigration  of  Catholics  is  a  very  serious 
question.  So  far  you  have  got  the  sympathy  of  Rome, 
and,  I  may  say  of  myself ;  but  am  I  to  understand  that 
it  was  your  fear  for  the  religious  safety  of  Ireland  that 
prompted  you  to  write  this  letter?" 

"  What  other  reason  could  there  be  ?" 

Nothing  was  said  for  a  long  while,  and  then  the 
Bishop's  meaning  began  to  break  in  his  mind ;  his  face 
flushed,  and  he  grew  confused.  "  I  hope  your  grace 
doesn't  think  for  a  moment  that " 

"  I  only  want  to  know  if  there  is  anyone — if  your 
eyes  ever  went  in  a  certain  direction,  if  your  thoughts 
ever  said,  '  Well,  if  the  decree  is  revoked '  " 

"  No,  your  Grace,  no.  Celibacy  has  been  no  burden 
to  me — far  from  it.  Sometimes  I  feared  that  it  was 
celibacy  that  attracted  me  to  the  priesthood.  Celibacy 
was  a  gratification  rather  than  a  sacrifice." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  he  spoke  slowly 
and  emphatically,  "  that  this  letter  was  prompted  by 
such  impersonal  motives." 

"  Surely,  your  Grace,  His  Holiness  did  not  sus- 
pect  " 

179 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

The  Bishop  murmured  an  euphonious  Italian  name, 
and  Father  MacTurnan  understood  that  he  was  speak- 
ing of  one  of  the  Pope's  secretaries. 

"  More  than  once,"  said  Father  MacTurnan,  "  I 
feared  that  if  the  decree  were  revoked,  I  should  not 
have  had  sufficient  courage  to  comply  with  it." 

And  then  he  told  the  Bishop  how  he  had  met  Norah 
Flynn  on  the  road.  An  amused  expression  stole  into 
the  Bishop's  face,  and  his  voice  changed. 

"  I  presume  you  do  not  contemplate  making  mar- 
riage obligatory ;  you  do  not  contemplate  the  suspen- 
sion of  the  faculties  of  those  who  do  not  take  wives  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  exception  should  be  made  in 
favour  of  those  in  orders,  and,  of  course,  in  favour  of 
those  who  have  reached  a  certain  age  like  your  Grace." 

The  Bishop  coughed,  and  pretended  to  look  for  some 
paper  which  he  had  mislaid. 

"  This  was  one  of  the  many  points  that  I  discussed 
with  Father  Michael  Meehan." 

"  Oh,  so  you  consulted  Father  Meehan,"  the  Bishop 
said,  looking  up. 

"  He  came  in  one  day  I  was  reading  over  my  Latin 
translation  before  posting  it.  I'm  afraid  the  ideas  that 
I  submitted  to  the  consideration  of  His  Holiness  have 
been  degraded  by  my  very  poor  Latin.  I  should  have 
wished  Father  Meehan  to  overlook  my  Latin,  but  he 
refused.  He  begged  of  me  not  to  send  the  letter." 

"  Father  Meehan,"  said  his  Grace,  "  is  a  great  friend 
of  yours.  Yet  nothing  he  could  say  could  shake  your 
resolution  to  write  to  Rome  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Father  MacTurnan.  "  The  call  I 
received  was  too  distinct  and  too  clear  for  me  to 
hesitate." 

180 


A   LETTER   TO  ROME 

"  Tell  me  about  this  call." 

Father  MacTurnan  told  the  Bishop  that  the  poor 
man  had  come  out  of  the  work-house  because  he  wanted 
to  be  married,  and  that  Mike  Mulhare  would  not  give 
him  his  daughter  until  he  had  earned  the  price  of  a  pig. 
"  And  as  I  was  talking  to  him  I  heard  my  conscience 
say,  '  No  man  can  afford  to  marry  in  Ireland  but  the 
clergy.'  We  all  live  better  than  our  parishioners." 

And  then,  forgetting  the  Bishop,  and  talking  as  if  he 
were  alone  with  his  God,  he  described  how  the  convic- 
tion had  taken  possession  of  him — that  Ireland  would 
become  a  Protestant  country  if  the  Catholic  emigration 
did  not  cease.  And  he  told  how  this  conviction  had 
left  him  little  peace  until  he  had  written  his  letter. 

The  priest  talked  on  until  he  was  interrupted  by 
Father  Moran. 

"  I  have  some  business  to  transact  with  Father 
Moran  now,"  the  Bishop  said,  "  but  you  must  stay  to 
dinner.  You  have  walked  a  long  way,  and  you  are 
tired  and  hungry." 

"  But,  your  Grace,  if  I  don't  start  now,  I  shall  not 
get  home  until  nightfall." 

"  A  car  will  take  you  back,  Father  MacTurnan.  I 
will  see  to  that.  I  must  have  some  exact  information 
about  your  poor  people.  We  must  do  something  for 
them." 

Father  MacTurnan  and  the  Bishop  were  talking 
together  when  the  car  came  to  take  Father  MacTurnan 
home,  and  the  Bishop  said : — 

"  Father  MacTurnan,  you  have  borne  the  loneliness 
of  your  parish  a  long  while." 

"  Loneliness  is  only  a  matter  of  habit.  I  think,  your 
Grace,  I'm  better  suited  to  the  place  than  I  am  for  any 

181 


A   LETTER   TO   ROME 

other.  I  don't  wish  any  change,  if  your  Grace  is  satis- 
fied with  me." 

"  No  one  will  look  after  the  poor  people  better  than 
yourself,  Father  MacTurnan.  But/'  he  said,  "  it  seems 
to  me  there  is  one  thing  we  have  forgotten.  You 
haven't  told  me  if  you  succeeded  in  getting  the  money 
to  buy  the  pig." 

Father  MacTurnan  grew  very  red.  ..."  I  had 
forgotten  it.  The  relief  works " 

"  It's  not  too  late.  Here's  five  pounds,  and  this  will 
buy  him  a  pig." 

"  It  will  indeed,"  said  the  priest,  "  it  will  buy  him 
two !" 

He  had  left  the  Palace  without  having  asked  the 
Bishop  how  his  letter  had  been  received  at  Rome,  and 
he  stopped  the  car,  and  was  about  to  tell  the  driver  to 
go  back.  But  no  matter,  he  would  hear  about  his  letter 
some  other  time.  He  was  bringing  happiness  to  two 
poor  people,  and  he  could  not  persuade  himself  to 
delay  their  happiness  by  one  minute.  He  was  not 
bringing  one  pig,  but  two  pigs,  and  now  Mike  Mulhare 
would  have  to  give  him  Norah  and  a  calf;  and  the 
priest  remembered  that  James  Murdoch  had  said, 
"  What  a  fine  house  this  will  be  to  rear  them  in." 
There  were  many  who  thought  that  human  beings  and 
animals  should  not  live  together;  but  after  all,  what 
did  it  matter  if  they  were  happy?  And  the  priest 
forgot  his  letter  to  Rome  in  the  thought  of  the  hap- 
piness he  was  bringing  to  two  poor  people.  He  could 
not  see  Norah  Mulhare  that  night ;  but  he  drove  down 
to  the  famine  road,  and  he  and  the  driver  called  till  they 
awoke  James  Murdoch.  The  poor  man  came  stum- 
bling across  the  bog,  and  the  priest  told  him  the  news. 

182 


JULIA  CAHILL'S  CURSE 


JULIA    CAHILL'S    CURSE 

IN  '95  I  was  agent  of  the  Irish  Industrial  Society, 
and  I  spent  three  days  with  Father  O'Hara  making 
arrangements  for  the  establishment  of  looms,  for  the 
weaving  of  homespuns  and  for  acquiring  plots  of 
ground  whereon  to  build  schools  where  the  village  girls 
could  practice  lace-making. 

The  priest  was  one  of  the  chief  supporters  of  our 
movement.  He  was  a  wise  and  tactful  man,  who  suc- 
ceeded not  only  in  living  on  terms  of  friendship  with 
one  of  the  worst  landlords  in  Ireland,  but  in  obtaining 
many  concessions  from  him.  When  he  came  to  live 
in  Culloch  the  landlord  had  said  to  him  that  what  he 
would  like  to  do  would  be  to  run  the  ploughshare 
through  the  town,  and  to  turn  "  Culloch"  into  Bullock. 
But  before  many  years  had  passed  Father  O'Hara  had 
persuaded  this  man  to  use  his  influence  to  get  a  suffi- 
cient capital  to  start  a  bacon  factory.  And  the  town 
of  Culloch  possessed  no  other  advantages  except  an 
energetic  and  foreseeing  parish  priest.  It  was  not  a 
railway  terminus,  nor  was  it  a  seaport. 

But,  perhaps  because  of  his  many  admirable  quali- 
ties, Father  O'Hara  is  not  the  subject  of  this  story. 
We  find  stories  in  the  lives  of  the  weak  and  the  foolish, 
and  the  improvident,  and  his  name  occurs  here  because 
he  is  typical  of  not  a  few  priests  I  have  met  in  Ireland. 

I  left  him  early  one  Sunday  morning,  and  he  saying 
that  twenty  odd  miles  lay  before  me,  and  my  first 
stopping  place  would  be  Ballygliesane.  I  could  hear 
Mass  there  at  Father  Madden's  chapel,  and  after  Mass 

185 


JULIA   CAHILL'S  CURSE 

I  could  call  upon  him,  and  that  when  I  had  explained 
the  objects  of  our  Society  I  could  drive  to  Rathowen, 
where  there  was  a  great  gathering  of  the  clergy.  All 
the  priests  within  ten  miles  round  would  be  there  for 
the  consecration  of  the  new  church. 

On  an  outside  car  one  divides  one's  time  in  moral- 
ising on  the  state  of  the  country  or  in  chatting  with  the 
driver,  and  as  the  driver  seemed  somewhat  taciturn  I 
examined  the  fields  as  we  passed  them.  They  were 
scanty  fields,  drifting  from  thin  grass  into  bog,  and 
from  bog  into  thin  grass  again,  and  in  the  distance 
there  was  a  rim  of  melancholy  mountains,  and  the 
peasants  I  saw  along  the  road  seemed  a  counterpart  of 
the  landscape.  "  The  land  has  made  them/'  I  said, 
"  according  to  its  own  image  and  likeness,"  and  I  tried 
to  find  words  to  define  the  yearning  that  I  read  in  their 
eyes  as  we  drove  past.  But  I  could  find  no  words  that 
satisfied  me. 

"  Only  music  can  express  their  yearning,  and  they 
have  written  it  themselves  in  their  folk  tunes." 

My  driver's  eyes  were  the  eyes  that  one  meets  every- 
where in  Ireland,  pale,  wandering  eyes  that  the  land 
seems  to  create,  and  I  wondered  if  his  character  corre- 
sponded to  his  eyes ;  and  with  a  view  to  finding  if  it 
did  I  asked  him  some  questions  about  Father  Madden. 
He  seemed  unwilling  to  talk,  but  I  soon  began  to  see 
that  his  silence  was  the  result  of  shyness  rather  than 
dislike  of  conversation.  He  was  a  gentle,  shy  lad,  and 
I  told  him  that  Father  O'Hara  had  said  I  would  see 
the  loneliest  parish  in  Ireland. 

"  It's  true  for  him,"  he  answered,  and  again  there 
was  silence.  At  the  end  of  a  mile  I  asked  him  if  the 
land  in  Father  Madden's  parish  was  poor,  and  he  said 

1 86 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

no,  it  was  the  best  land  in  the  country,  and  then  I  was 
certain  that  there  was  some  mystery  attached  to  Father 
Madden. 

"  The  road  over  there  is  the  mearing." 

And  soon  after  passing  this  road  I  noticed  that 
although  the  land  was  certainly  better  than  the  land 
about  Culloch,  there  seemed  to  be  very  few  people  on 
it;  and  what  was  more  significant  than  the  untilled 
fields  were  the  ruins,  for  they  were  not  the  cold  ruins 
of  twenty,  or  thirty,  or  forty  years  ago  when  the  people 
were  evicted  and  their  tillage  turned  into  pasture,  but 
the  ruins  of  cabins  that  had  been  lately  abandoned. 
Some  of  the  roof  trees  were  still  unbroken,  and  I  said 
that  the  inhabitants  must  have  left  voluntarily. 

"  Sure  they  did.     Arn't  we  all  going  to  America." 

"  Then  it  was  not  the  landlord  ?" 

"  Ah,  it's  the  landlord  who'd  have  them  back  if  he 
could." 

"  And  the  priest  ?    How  does  he  get  his  dues  ?" 

"  Those  on  the  other  side  are  always  sending  their 
money  to  their  friends  and  they  pay  the  priest.  Sure 
why  should  we  be  staying?  Isn't  the  most  of  us  over 
there  already.  It's  more  like  going  home  than  leaving 
home." 

I  told  him  we  hoped  to  establish  new  looms  in  the 
country,  and  that  Father  O'Hara  had  promised  to 
help  us. 

"  Father  O'Hara  is  a  great  man,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  that  with  the  revival  of  in- 
dustries the  people  might  be  induced  to  stay  at  home  ?" 

"  Sorra  stay,"  said  he. 

I  could  see  that  he  was  not  so  convinced  about  the 
depopulation  of  Father  O'Hara's  parish  as  he  was 

187 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

about  Father  Madden's,  and  I  tried  to  induce  him  to 
speak  his  mind. 

"  Well,  your  honour,  there's  many  that  think  there's 
a  curse  on  the  parish." 

"A  curse!   And  who  put  the  curse  on  the  parish?" 

"  Isn't  that  the  bell  ringing  for  Mass,  your  honour  ?" 

And  listening  I  could  head  a  doleful  pealing  in  the 
grey  sky. 

"  Does  Father  Madden  know  of  this  curse  ?" 

"  Indeed  he  does ;  none  better." 

"  And  does  he  believe  in  it  ?" 

"  There's  many  who  will  tell  you  that  he  has  been 
saying  Masses  for  the  last  ten  years,  that  the  curse  may 
be  taken  off  the  parish." 

We  could  now  hear  the  bell  tolling  quite  distinctly, 
and  the  driver  pointed  with  his  whip,  and  I  could  see 
the  cross  above  the  fir-trees. 

"And  there,"  he  said,  "is  Bridget  Coyne,"  and  I 
saw  a  blind  woman  being  led  along  the  road.  At  the 
moment  I  supposed  he  had  pointed  the  woman  out 
because  she  was  blind,  though  this  did  not  seem  a  suffi- 
cient reason  for  the  note  of  wonder  in  his  voice ;  but 
we  were  within  a  few  yards  of  the  chapel  and  there 
was  no  time  to  ask  him  who  Bridget  Coyne  was.  I  had 
to  speak  to  him  about  finding  stabling  for  the  horse. 
That,  he  said,  was  not  necessary,  he  would  let  the  horse 
graze  in  the  chapel-yard  while  he  himself  knelt  by  the 
door,  so  that  he  could  hear  Mass  and  keep  an  eye  on 
his  horse.  "  I  shall  want  you  half  an  hour  after  Mass 
is  over."  Half  an  hour,  I  thought,  would  suffice  to 
explain  the  general  scope  of  our  movement  to  Father 
Madden.  I  had  found  that  the  best  way  was  to  explain 
to  each  priest  in  turn  the  general  scope  of  the  move- 

188 


JULIA   CAHILL'S  CURSE 

ment,  and  then  to  pay  a  second  visit  a  few  weeks  later. 
The  priest  would  have  considered  the  ideas  that  I  had 
put  into  his  head,  he  would  have  had  time  to  assimilate 
them  in  the  interval,  and  I  could  generally  tell  in  the 
second  visit  if  I  should  find  in  him  a  friend,  an  enemy, 
or  an  indifferent. 

There  was  something  extraordinary  in  the  appear- 
ance of  Father  Madden's  church,  a  few  peasants 
crouched  here  and  there,  and  among  them  I  saw  the 
blind  woman  that  the  driver  had  pointed  out  on  the 
road.  She  did  not  move  during  Mass;  she  knelt  or 
crouched  with  her  shawl  drawn  over  her  head,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  acolyte  rang  the  communion  bell  that 
she  dared  to  lift  herself  up.  That  day  she  was  the  only 
communicant,  and  the  acolyte  did  not  turn  the  altar 
cloth  over  the  rails,  he  gave  her  a  little  bit  of  the  cloth 
to  hold,  and,  holding  it  firmly  in  her  fingers,  she  lifted 
up  her  blind  face,  and  when  the  priest  placed  the  Host 
on  her  tongue  she  sank  back  overcome. 

"  This  blind  woman,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  will  be  the 
priest's  last  parishioner,"  and  I  saw  the  priest  saying 
Mass  in  a  waste  church  for  the  blind  woman,  everyone 
else  dead  or  gone. 

All  her  days  I  said  are  spent  by  the  cabin  fire  hearing 
of  people  going  to  America,  her  relations,  her  brothers 
and  sisters  had  gone,  and  every  seventh  day  she  is  led 
to  hear  Mass,  to  receive  the  Host,  and  to  sink  back. 
To-day  and  to-morrow  and  the  next  day  will  be  spent 
brooding  over  her  happiness,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
week  she  will  begin  to  look  forward  to  the  seventh  day. 

The  blind  woman  seemed  strangely  symbolical  and 
the  parish,  the  priest  too.  A  short,  thick-set  man,  with 
a  large  bald  head  and  a  fringe  of  reddish  hair;  his 

189 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

hands  were  fat  and  short,  the  nails  were  bitten,  the 
nose  was  fleshy  and  the  eyes  were  small,  and  when  he 
turned  towards  the  people  and  said  "  Pax  Vobiscum," 
there  was  a  note  of  command  in  his  voice.  The  religion 
he  preached  was  one  of  fear.  His  sermon  was  filled 
with  flames  and  gridirons,  and  ovens  and  devils  with 
pitchforks,  and  his  parishioners  groaned  and  shook 
their  heads  and  beat  their  breasts. 

I  did  not  like  Father  Madden  or  his  sermon.  I  re- 
membered that  there  were  few  young  people  left  in  his 
parish,  and  it  seemed  waste  of  time  to  appeal  to  him 
for  help  in  establishing  industries ;  but  it  was  my 
business  to  seek  the  co-operation  of  every  priest,  and  I 
could  not  permit  myself  such  a  licence  as  the  passing 
over  of  any  priest.  What  reason  could  I  give?  that  I 
did  not  like  his  sermon  or  his  bald  head?  And  after 
Mass  I  went  round  to  see  him  in  the  sacristy. 

The  sacristy  was  a  narrow  passage,  and  there  were 
two  acolytes  in  it,  and  the  priest  was  taking  off  his 
vestments,  and  people  were  knocking  constantly  at  the 
door,  and  the  priest  had  to  tell  the  acolyte  what  answer 
to  give.  I  had  only  proposed  to  myself  to  sketch  the 
objects  of  our  organisation  in  a  general  outline  to  the 
priest,  but  it  was  impossible  even  to  do  this,  so  numer- 
ous were  the  interruptions.  When  I  came  to  unfold 
our  system  of  payments,  the  priest  said : — 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  listen  to  you  here.  You 
had  better  come  round  with  me  to  my  house." 

The  invitation  was  not  quite  in  accordance  with  the 
idea  I  had  formed  of  the  man,  and  while  walking 
across  the  fields  he  asked  me  if  I  would  have  a  cup  of 
tea  with  him,  and  we  spoke  of  the  new  church  at 
Rathowen.  It  seemed  legitimate  to  deplore  the  build- 

190 


JULIA   CAHILL'S  CURSE 

ing  of  new  churches,  and  I  mentioned  that  while  the 
churches  were  increasing  the  people  were  decreasing, 
and  I  ventured  to  regret  that  only  two  ideas  seemed  to 
obtain  in  Ireland,  the  idea  of  the  religious  vocation  and 
the  idea  of  emigration. 

"  I  see,"  said  Father  Madden,  "  you  are  imbued  with 
all  the  new  ideas." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  you  don't  wish  the  country  to  dis- 
appear." 

"  I  do  not  wish  it  to  disappear,"  he  said,  "  but  if  it 
intends  to  disappear  we  can  do  nothing  to  prevent  it 
from  disappearing.  Everyone  is  opposed  to  emigration 
now,  but  I  remember  when  everyone  was  advocating 
it.  Teach  them  English  and  emigrate  them  was  the 
cure.  Now,"  he  said,  "  you  wish  them  to  learn  Irish 
and  to  stay  at  home.  And  you  are  quite  certain  that 
this  time  you  have  found  out  the  true  way.  I  live  very 
quiet  down  here,  but  I  hear  all  the  new  doctrines. 
Besides  teaching  Paddy  Durkin  to  feed  his  pig,  I  hear 
you  are  going  to  revive  the  Gothic.  Music  and  litera- 
ture are  to  follow,  and  among  these  resurrections  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  pagan  Ireland." 

We  entered  a  comfortable,  well-furnished  cottage, 
with  a  good  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  the  walls  lined 
with  books,  and  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace  there 
were  easy  chairs,  and  I  thought  of  the  people  "  on  the 
other  side." 

He  took  a  pot  of  tea  from  the  hob,  and  said : — 

"  Now  let  me  pour  you  out  a  cup  of  tea,  and  you 
shall  tell  me  about  the  looms." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  Father  Madden,  you  don't  believe 
much  in  the  future  of  Ireland,  you  don't  take  very 
kindly  to  new  ideas." 

191 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

"  New  ideas !  Every  ten  years  there  is  a  new  set. 
If  I  had  said  teach  them  Irish  ten  years  ago  I  should 
have  been  called  a  fool,  and  now  if  I  say  teach  them 
English  and  let  them  go  to  America  I  am  called  a 
reactionist.  You  have  come  from  Father  O'Hara;"  I 
could  see  from  the  way  he  said  the  name  that  the 
priests  were  not  friends ;  "  and  he  has  told  you  a  great 
many  of  my  people  have  gone  to  America.  And  per- 
haps you  heard  him  say  that  they  have  not  gone  to 
America  for  the  sake  of  better  wages  but  because  my 
rule  is  too  severe,  because  I  put  down  cross-road 
dances.  Father  O'Hara  and  I  think  differently,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  he  thinks  he  is  quite  right." 

While  we  breakfasted  Father  Madden  said  some 
severe  things  about  Father  O'Hara,  about  the  church 
he  had  built,  and  the  debt  that  was  still  upon  it. 

I  suppose  my  face  told  Father  Madden  of  the  inter- 
est I  took  in  his  opinions,  for  during  breakfast  he 
continued  to  speak  his  mind  very  frankly  on  all  the 
subjects  I  wished  to  hear  him  speak  on,  and  when 
breakfast  was  over  I  offered  him  a  cigar  and  proposed 
that  we  should  go  for  a  walk  on  his  lawn. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  there  are  people  who  think  I  am  a 
reactionist  because  I  put  down  the  ball-alley." 

"  The  ball-alley !" 

"  There  used  to  be  a  ball-alley  by  the  church,  but  the 
boys  wouldn't  stop  playing  ball  during  Mass,  so  I  put 
it  down.  But  you  will  excuse  me  a  moment."  The 
priest  darted  off,  and  I  saw  him  climb  down  the  wall 
into  the  road ;  he  ran  a  little  way  along  the  road  calling 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  when  I  got  to  the  wall  I 
saw  him  coming  back.  "  Let  me  help  you,"  I  said.  I 
pulled  him  up  and  we  continued  our  walk ;  and  as  soon 

192 


JULIA   CAHILL'S  CURSE 

as  he  had  recovered  his  breath  he  told  me  that  he  had 
caught  sight  of  a  boy  and  girl  loitering. 

"  And  I  hunted  them  home." 

I  asked  him  why,  knowing  well  the  reason,  and  he 
said : — 

"Young  people  should  not  loiter  along  the  roads. 
I  don't  want  bastards  in  my  parish." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  perhaps  bastards  were  better 
than  no  children  at  all,  even  from  a  religious  point  of 
view — one  can't  have  religion  without  life,  and  bas- 
tards may  be  saints. 

"  In  every  country,"  I  said,  "  boys  and  girls  walk 
together,  and  the  only  idealism  that  conies  into  the  lives 
of  peasants  is  between  the  ages  of  eighteen  and  twenty, 
when  young  people  meet  in  the  lanes  and  linger  by  the 
stiles.  Afterwards  hard  work  in  the  fields  kills  aspira- 
tion." 

"  The  idealism  of  the  Irish  people  does  not  go  into 
sex,  it  goes  into  religion." 

"  But  religion  does  not  help  to  continue  the  race, 
and  we're  anxious  to  preserve  the  race,  otherwise 
there  will  be  no  religion,  or  a  different  religion  in 
Ireland." 

"  That  is  not  certain." 

Later  on  I  asked  him  if  the  people  still  believed  in 
fairies.  He  said  that  traces  of  such  beliefs  survived 
among  the  mountain  folk. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  Paganism  in  the  language 
they  wish  to  revive,  though  it  may  be  as  free  from 
Protestantism  as  Father  O'Hara  says  it  is." 

For  some  reason  or  other  I  could  see  that  folk-lore 
was  distasteful  to  him,  and  he  mentioned  causally  that 
he  had  put  a  stop  to  the  telling  of  fairy-tales  round 
13  193 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

the  fire  in  the  evening,  and  the  conversation  came  to 
a  pause. 

"  Now  I  won't  detain  you  much  longer,  Father  Mad- 
den. My  horse  and  car  are  waiting  for  me.  You 
will  think  over  the  establishment  of  looms.  You  don't 
want  the  country  to  disappear." 

"  No,  I  don't !  And  though  I  do  not  think  the  estab- 
lishment of  work-rooms  an  unmixed  blessing  I  will 
help  you.  You  must  not  believe  all  Father  O'Hara 
says." 

The  horse  began  to  trot,  and  I  to  think.  He  had 
said  that  the  idealism  of  the  Irish  peasant  goes  into 
other  things  than  sex. 

"  If  this  be  true,  the  peasant  is  doomed,"  I  said  to 
myself,  and  I  remembered  that  Father  Madden  would 
not  admit  that  religion  is  dependent  on  life,  and  I 
pondered.  In  this  country  religion  is  hunting  life  to 
the  death.  In  other  countries  religion  has  managed 
to  come  to  terms  with  Life.  In  the  South  men  and 
women  indulge  their  flesh  and  turn  the  key  on  religious 
inquiry;  in  the  North  men  and  women  find  sufficient 
interest  in  the  interpretation  of  the  Bible  and  the  found- 
ing of  new  religious  sects.  One  can  have  faith  or 
morals,  both  together  seem  impossible.  Remembering 
how  the  priest  had  chased  the  lovers,  I  turned  to  the 
driver  and  asked  if  there  was  no  courting  in  the 
country. 

"  There  used  to  be  courting,"  he  said,  "  but  now  it 
is  not  the  custom  of  the  country  any  longer." 

"  How  do  you  make  up  your  marriages  ?" 

"  The  marriages  are  made  by  the  parents,  and  I've 
often  seen  it  that  the  young  couple  did  not  see  each 
other  until  the  evening  before  the  wedding — sometimes 

194 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

not  until  the  very  morning  of  the  wedding.  Many  a 
marriage  I've  seen  broken  off  for  a  half  a  sovereign — 
well,"  he  said,  "  if  not  for  half  a  sovereign,  for  a 
sovereign.  One  party  will  give  forty-nine  pounds 
and  the  other  party  wants  fifty,  and  they  haggle 
over  that  pound,  and  then  the  boy's  father  will  say, 
"  Well,  if  you  won't  give  the  pound  you  can  keep  the 
girl." 

"  But  do  none  of  you  ever  want  to  walk  out  with  a 
young  girl?"  I  said. 

"  We're  like  other  people,  sir.  We  would  like  it  well 
enough,  but  it  isn't  the  custom  of  the  country,  and  if 
we  did  it  we  would  be  talked  about." 

I  began  to  like  my  young  carman,  and  his  answer 
to  my  question  pleased  me  as  much  as  any  answer 
he  had  yet  given  me,  and  I  told  him  that  Father  Mad- 
den objected  to  the  looms  because  they  entailed  meet- 
ings, etc.,  and  if  he  were  not  present  the  boys  would 
talk  on  subjects  they  should  not  talk  about. 

"  Now,  do  you  think  it  is  right  for  a  priest  to  pre- 
vent men  from  meeting  to  discuss  their  business?"  I 
said,  turning  to  the  driver,  determined  to  force  him 
into  an  expression  of  opinion. 

"  It  isn't  because  he  thinks  the  men  would  talk 
about  things  they  should  not  talk  about  that  he  is 
against  an  organization.  Didn't  he  tell  your  honour 
that  things  would  have  to  take  their  course.  That 
is  why  he  will  do  nothing,  because  he  knows  well 
enough  that  everyone  in  the  parish  will  have  to  leave 
it,  that  every  house  will  have  to  fall.  Only  the  chapel 
will  remain  standing,  and  the  day  will  come  when 
Father  Tom  will  say  Mass  to  the  blind  woman  and 
to  no  one  else.  Did  you  see  the  blind  woman  to-day 

195 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

at  Mass,  sir,  in  the  right-hand  corner,  with  the  shawl 
over  her  head?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  saw  her.  If  any  one  is  a  saint, 
that  woman  seems  to  be  one." 

"  Yes,  sir,  she  is  a  very  pious  woman,  and  her  piety 
is  so  well  known  that  she  is  the  only  one  who  dared 
to  brave  Father  Madden;  she  was  the  only  one  who 
dared  to  take  Julia  Cahill  to  live  with  her.  It  was 
Julia  who  put  the  curse  on  the  parish." 

"  A  curse !    But  you  are  joking." 

"  No,  your  honour,  there  was  no  joke  in  it.  I  was 
only  telling  you  what  must  come.  She  put  her  curse 
on  the  village  twenty  years  ago,  and  every  year  a  roof 
has  fallen  in  and  a  family  has  gone  away." 

"  And  you  believe  that  all  this  happens  on  account 
of  Julia's  curse?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do,"  he  said.  He  flicked  his  horse 
pensively  with  the  whip,  and  my  disbelief  seemed  to 
disincline  him  for  further  conversation. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  who  is  Julia  Cahill,  and  how  did 
she  get  the  power  to  lay  a  curse  upon  the  village? 
Was  she  a  young  woman  or  an  old  one?" 

"  A  young  one,  sir." 

"How  did  she  get  the  power?" 

"  Didn't  she  go  every  night  into  the  mountains  ? 
She  was  seen  one  night  over  yonder,  and  the  moun- 
tains are  ten  miles  off,  and  whom  would  she  have 
gone  to  see  except  the  fairies?  And  who  could  have 
given  her  the  power  to  curse  the  village?" 

"  But  who  saw  her  in  the  mountains  ?  She  would 
never  walk  so  far  in  one  evening." 

"  A  shepherd  saw  her,  sir." 

"  But  he  may  have  been  mistaken." 
196 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

"  He  saw  her  speaking  to  some  one,  and  nobody 
for  the  last  two  years  that  she  was  in  this  village 
dared  to  speak  to  her  but  the  fairies  and  the  old 
woman  you  saw  at  Mass  to-day,  sir." 

"  Now,  tell  me  about  Julia  Cahill ;  what  did  she 
do?" 

"  It  is  said,  sir,  she  was  the  finest  girl  in  these 
parts.  I  was  only  a  gossoon  at  the  time,  about  eight 
or  nine,  but  I  remember  that  she  was  tall,  sir,  nearly 
as  tall  as  you  are,  and  she  was  as  straight  as  one  of 
those  poplar-trees,"  he  said,  pointing  to  three  trees 
that  stood  against  the  sky.  "  She  walked  with  a  little 
swing  in  her  walk,  so  that  all  the  boys,  I  have  heard, 
who  were  grown  up  used  to  look  after  her,  and  she 
had  fine  black  eyes,  sir,  and  she  was  nearly  always 
laughing.  This  was  the  time  when  Father  Madden 
came  to  the  parish.  There  was  courting  in  it  then, 
and  every  young  man  and  every  young  woman  made 
their  own  marriages,  and  their  marriages  were  made 
at  the  cross-road  dancing,  and  in  the  summer  evenings 
under  the  hedges.  There  was  no  dancer  like  Julia; 
they  used  to  gather  about  to  see  her  dance,  and  who- 
ever walked  with  her  under  the  hedges  in  the  summer, 
could  never  think  about  another  woman.  The  village 
was  fairly  mad  about  her,  many  a  fight  there  was 
over  her,  so  I  suppose  the  priest  was  right.  He  had 
to  get  rid  of  her ;  but  I  think  he  might  not  have  been 
so  hard  upon  her  as  he  was.  It  is  said  that  he  went 
down  to  her  house  one  evening;  Julia's  people  were 
well-to-do  people;  they  kept  a  shop;  you  might  have 
seen  it  as  we  came  along  the  road,  just  outside  of  the 
village  it  is.  And  when  he  came  in  there  was  one  of 
the  richest  farmers  in  the  country  who  was  trying  to 

197 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

get  Julia  for  his  wife.  Instead  of  going  to  Julia,  he 
had  gone  to  the  father.  There  are  two  counters  in  the 
shop,  and  Julia  was  at  the  other,  and  she  had  made 
many  a  good  pound  for  her  parents  in  that  shop; 
and  he  said  to  the  father :  '  Now,  what  fortune  are 
you  going  to  give  with  Julia?'  And  the  father  said 
there  was  many  a  man  who  would  take  her  without  any, 
and  Julia  was  listening  quietly  all  the  while  at  the 
opposite  counter.  The  man  who  had  come  to  marry 
her  did  not  know  what  a  spirited  girl  she  was,  and  he 
went  on  till  he  got  the  father  to  say  that  he  would  give 
£70,  and,  thinking  he  had  got  him  so  far,  he  said, 
'  Julia  will  never  cross  my  doorway  unless  you  give  her 
£80.'  Julia  said  never  a  word,  she  just  sat  there  listen- 
ing, and  it  was  then  that  the  priest  came  in.  He 
listened  for  awhile,  and  then  he  went  over  to  Julia  and 
said,  '  Are  you  not  proud  to  hear  that  you  will  have 
such  a  fine  fortune  ?'  And  he  said,  '  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you  married.  I  would  marry  you  for  nothing, 
for  I  cannot  have  any  more  of  your  goings-on  in  my 
parish.  You're  the  beginning  of  the  dancing  and 
courting  here;  the  ball-alley,  too — I  am  going  to  put 
all  that  down.'  Julia  did  not  answer  a  single  word  to 
him,  and  he  went  over  to  them  that  were  disputing 
about  the  £80,  and  he  said,  '  Now,  why  not  make  it 
£75,'  and  the  father  agreed  to  that,  since  the  priest 
said  it,  and  the  three  men  thought  the  marriage  was 
settled.  And  Father  Tom  thought  that  he  would  get 
not  less  than  £10  for  the  marrying  of  her.  They  did 
not  even  think  to  ask  her,  and  little  did  they  think 
what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  what  she  said  was 
that  she  would  not  marry  any  one  until  it  pleased  her- 
self, and  that  she  would  pick  a  man  out  of  this  parish 

198 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

or  out  of  the  next  that  pleased  her.  Her  husband 
should  marry  her,  and  not  so  many  pounds  to  be  paid 
when  they  signed  the  book  or  when  the  first  baby  was 
born.  This  is  how  marriages  are  settled  now.  Well, 
sir,  the  priest  went  wild  when  he  heard  Julia  speak 
like  this;  he  had  only  just  come  to  the  parish,  and 
did  not  know  how  self-minded  Julia  was.  Her  father 
did,  though,  and  he  said  nothing;  he  let  Julia  and 
the  priest  fight  it  out,  and  he  said  to  the  man  who 
had  come  to  marry  her,  '  My  good  man,  you  can  go 
your  way;  you  will  never  get  her,  I  can  tell  that.' 
And  the  priest  was  heard  saying,  '  Do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  let  you  go  on  turning  the  head  of  every 
boy  in  the  parish?  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  see 
fighting  and  quarrelling  for  you?  Do  you  think  I 
am  going  to  see  you  first  with  one  boy  and  then  with 
the  other?  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  hear  stories 
like  I  heard  last  week  about  poor  Peter  Carey,  who 
they  say,  has  gone  out  of  his  mind  on  account  of  your 
treatment  ?  No/  he  said,  '  I  will  have  no  more  of  you ; 
I  will  have  you  out  of  my  parish,  or  I  will  have  you 
married.'  Julia  tossed  her  head,  and  her  father  got 
frightened.  He  promised  the  priest  that  she  should 
walk  no  more  with  the  young  men  in  the  evenings, 
for  he  thought  he  could  keep  her  at  home;  but  he 
might  just  as  well  have  promised  the  priest  to  tie  up 
the  winds.  Julia  was  out  the  same  evening  with  a 
young  man,  and  the  priest  saw  her ;  and  next  evening 
she  was  out  with  another,  and  the  priest  saw  her ;  and 
not  a  bit  minded  was  she  at  the  end  of  the  month  to 
marry  any  of  them.  It  is  said  that  he  went  down  to 
speak  to  her  a  second  time,  and  again  a  third  time; 
it  is  said  that  she  laughed  at  him.  After  that  there 

199 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  speak  against  her 
from  the  altar.  The  old  people  say  there  were  some 
terrible  things  in  the  sermon.  I  have  heard  it  said  that 
the  priest  called  her  the  evil  spirit  that  sets  men  mad. 
I  don't  suppose  Father  Madden  intended  to  say  so 
much,  but  once  he  is  started  the  words  come  pouring 
out.  The  people  did  not  understand  half  of  what  he 
said,  but  they  were  very  much  frightened,  and  I  think 
more  frightened  at  what  they  did  not  understand  than 
at  what  they  did.  Soon  after  that  the  neighbours 
began  to  be  afraid  to  go  to  buy  anything  in  Cahill's 
shop;  even  the  boys  who  were  most  mad  after  Julia 
were  afraid  to  speak  to  her,  and  her  own  father  put  her 
out.  No  one  in  the  parish  would  speak  to  her;  they 
were  all  afraid  of  Father  Madden.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  the  blind  woman  you  saw  in  the  chapel  to-day,  sir, 
she  would  have  had  to  go  to  the  poor-house.  The  blind 
woman  has  a  little  cabin  at  the  edge  of  the  bog,  and 
there  Julia  lived.  She  remained  for  nearly  two  years, 
and  had  hardly  any  clothes  on  her  back,  but  she  was 
beautiful  for  all  that,  and  the  boys,  as  they  came  back, 
sir,  from  the  market  used  to  look  towards  the  little 
cabin  in  the  hopes  of  catching  sight  of  her.  They  only 
looked  when  they  thought  they  were  not  watched,  for 
the  priest  still  spoke  against  her.  He  tried  to  turn  the 
blind  woman  against  Julia,  but  he  could  not  do  that; 
the  blind  woman  kept  her  until  money  came  from 
America.  Some  say  that  she  went  to  America;  some 
say  that  she  joined  the  fairies.  But  one  morning  she 
surely  left  the  parish.  One  morning  Pat  Quinn  heard 
somebody  knocking  at  his  window,  somebody  asking 
if  he  would  lend  his  cart  to  take  somebody  to  the 
railway  station.  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 

200 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

and  Pat  was  a  heavy  sleeper,  and  he  would  not  get 
up,  and  it  is  said  that  she  walked  barefooted  all  the 
way  to  the  station,  and  that  is  a  good  ten  miles." 

"  But  you  said  something  about  a  curse." 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  man  who  was  taking  some  sheep  to  the 
fair  saw  her:  there  was  a  fair  that  day.  He  saw  her 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  road.  The  sun  was  just 
above  the  hill,  and  looking  back  she  cursed  the  village, 
raising  both  hands,  sir,  up  to  the  sun,  and  since  that 
curse  was  spoken,  every  year  a  roof  has  fallen  in." 

There  was  no  doubt  that  the  boy  believed  what  he 
had  told  me;  I  could  see  that  he  liked  to  believe  the 
story,  that  it  was  natural  and  sympathetic  to  him  to 
believe  in  it ;  and  for  the  moment  I,  too,  believed  in  a 
dancing  girl  becoming  the  evil  spirit  of  a  village  that 
would  not  accept  her  delight. 

"  He  has  sent  away  Life,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  and 
now  they  are  following  Life.  It  is  Life  they  are 
seeking." 

"  It  is  said,  your  honour,  that  she's  been  seen  in 
America,  and  I  am  going  there  this  autumn.  You  may 
be  sure  I  will  keep  a  look  out  for  her." 

"  But  all  this  is  twenty  years  ago.  You  will  not 
know  her.  A  woman  changes  a  good  deal  in  twenty 
years." 

"  There  will  be  no  change  in  her,  your  honour.  She 
has  been  with  the  fairies.  But,  sir,  we  shall  be  just  in 
time  to  see  the  clergy  come  out  of  the  cathedral  after 
the  consecration,"  he  said,  and  he  pointed  to  the 
town. 

It  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  flat  country,  and  as  we 
approached  it  the  great  wall  of  the  cathedral  rose  above 
dirty  and  broken  cottages,  and  great  masses  of  masonry 

201 


JULIA   CAHILL'S   CURSE 

extended  from  the  cathedral  into  the  town ;  and  these 
were  the  nunnery,  its  schools  and  laundry;  altogether 
they  seemed  like  one  great  cloud. 

When,  I  said,  will  a  ray  from  the  antique  sun  break 
forth  and  light  up  this  country  again  ? 


202 


A    PLAYHOUSE    IN    THE    WASTE 


A    PLAYHOUSE    IN   THE    WASTE 

I  HAD  arranged  to  stay  with  Father  MacTurnan  till 
Monday,  and  I  had  driven  many  miles  along  the  road 
that  straggles  like  a  grey  thread  through  the  brown 
bog.  On  either  side  there  were  bog-holes,  and  great 
ruts  in  the  road ;  the  horse  shied  frequently,  and  once 
I  was  preparing  to  leap  from  the  car,  but  the  driver 
assured  me  that  the  old  horse  would  not  leave  the 
road. 

"  Only  once  he  was  near  leaving  the  road,  and  the 
wheel  of  the  car  must  have  gone  within  an  inch  of  the 
bog-hole.  It  was  the  day  before  Christmas  Day,  and 
I  was  driving  the  doctor;  he  saw  something,  a  small 
white  thing  gliding  along  the  road,  and  he  was  that 
scared  that  the  hair  rose  up  and  went  through  his 
cap." 

I  could  not  tell  from  the  driver's  face  whether  he 
was  aware  of  his  extravagant  speech.  He  seemed  to 
have  already  forgotten  what  he  had  said,  and  we  drove 
on  through  the  bog  till  the  dismal  distant  mountains 
and  the  cry  of  a  plover  forced  me  to  speak  again. 

"  All  this  parish,  then,"  I  said,  "  is  Father  MacTur- 
nan's." 

"  Every  mile  of  it,  sir,"  he  said,  "  every  mile  of  it ; 
and  we  see  him  riding  along  the  roads  on  his  bicycle 
going  to  sick-calls  buttoned  up  in  his  old  coat." 

"  Do  you  often  come  this  way  ?" 

"  Not  very  often,  sir.  No  one  lives  here  except  the 
poor  people  and  the  priest  and  the  doctor.  It  is  the 
poorest  parish  in  Ireland,  and  every  third  or  fourth 

205 


A   PLAYHOUSE   IN   THE   WASTE 

year  there's  a  famine ;  and  they  would  have  died  long 
ago  if  it  had  not  been  for  Father  James." 

"And  how  does  he  help  them?" 

"  Isn't  he  always  writing  letters  to  the  Government 
asking  for  relief  works.  Do  you  see  those  bits  of 
roads?  They  are  the  relief  works." 

"  Where  do  those  roads  lead  to  ?" 

"  Nowhere.  The  road  stops  in  the  middle  of  the 
bog  when  the  money  is  out." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  surely  it  would  be  better  if  the 
money  were  spent  upon  permanent  improvements,  on 
drainage,  for  instance." 

The  boy  did  not  answer ;  he  called  to  his  horse,  and 
I  had  to  press  him  for  an  answer. 

"  There's  no  fall,  sir." 

"  And  the  bog  is  too  big,"  I  added,  in  hope  of  en- 
couraging conversation. 

"  Faith  it  is,  sir." 

"  But  we  are  not  very  far  from  the  sea,  are  we  ?" 

"  About  a  couple  of  miles." 

"  Well,  then,"  I  said,  "  couldn't  a  harbour  be  made?" 

"  They  were  thinking  about  that,  but  there's  no 
depth  of  water,  and  the  engineer  said  it  would  be 
cheaper  to  send  the  people  to  America.  Everyone  is 
against  emigration  now,  but  the  people  can't  live 
here." 

"  So  there  is  no  hope,"  I  said,  "  for  home  industries, 
weaving,  lace-making." 

"  I  won't  say  that." 

"  But  has  it  been  tried  ?" 

"  The  candle  do  be  burning  in  the  priest's  window 
till  one  in  the  morning,  and  he  sitting  up  thinking  of 
plans  to  keep  the  people  at  home.  Do  you  see  that 

206 


A   PLAYHOUSE  IN   THE  WASTE 

house,  sir,  fornint  my  whip,  at  the  top  of  the  hill?" 
I  said  I  did.    "  Well,  that's  the  playhouse  that  he  built." 

"  A  playhouse,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Father  James  hoped  that  people  might 
come  from  Dublin  to  see  it.  No  play  like  it  had  ever 
been  acted  in  Ireland  before,  sir." 

"  This  carman  of  mine,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  is  an 
extraordinary  fellow, — he  has  got  a  story  about  every- 
one ;  he  is  certainly  a  legitimate  descendant  of  the  old 
bards,"  and  I  leaned  across  the  car  and  said  to  him : — 

"  And  was  the  play  performed  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  The  priest  had  been  learning  them  all  the 
summer,  but  the  autumn  was  on  them  before  they  had 
got  it  by  rote,  and  a  wind  came  and  blew  down  one  of 
the  walls." 

"  And  couldn't  Father  MacTurnan  get  the  money  to 
build  it  up?" 

"  Sure  he  might  have  got  the  money,  but  where 
would  be  the  use  when  there  was  no  luck  in  it." 

"  And  who  were  to  act  the  play  ?" 

"  The  girls  and  boys  in  the  parish,  and  the  prettiest 
girl  in  all  the  parish  was  to  play  Good  Deeds." 

"  So  it  was  a  miracle  play,"  I  said. 

"  Do  you  see  that  man  there,  sir?  That's  the  priest 
coming  out  of  James  Burke's  cabin." 

We  should  overtake  Father  MacTurnan  in  a  minute 
or  more.  There  was  no  time  to  hear  the  story,  and  I 
was  sorry  not  to  have  heard  the  story  of  the  playhouse 
from  the  car-driver.  Father  MacTurnan  got  up  beside 
me,  and  told  me  we  were  about  a  mile  from  his  house 
and  that  he  had  dinner  for  me.  He  was  a  tall,  thin 
man,  and  his  pale,  wandering  eyes  reflected  the  melan- 
choly of  the  distant  mountains. 

207 


A   PLAYHOUSE   IN   THE   WASTE 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  you're  not  wet ;  we 
have  had  some  showers  here." 

"  We  were  caught  in  a  shower  coming  out  of  Rath- 
owen,  but  nothing  to  signify." 

Our  talk  then  turned  on  the  consecration  of  the 
cathedral.  I  told  him  everything  I  thought  would  in- 
terest him,  but  all  the  while  I  was  thinking  what  kind 
of  house  he  lived  in;  I  had  only  seen  mud  huts  for 
many  a  mile;  presently  he  pointed  with  his  umbrella, 
and  I  saw  a  comfortable  whitewashed  cottage  by  the 
roadside.  The  idea  of  the  playhouse  was  ringing  in 
my  head,  and  I  began  to  wonder  why  he  did  not  train 
a  rose-bush  against  its  wall,  and  a  moment  after  I  felt 
that  it  was  well  that  he  did  not — a  rose-bush  could  only 
seem  incongruous  facing  that  waste  hill.  We  passed 
into  the  house,  and  seeing  the  priest's  study  lined  with 
books,  I  said,  "  Reading  is  his  distraction,"  and  I 
looked  forward  to  a  pleasant  talk  about  books  when 
we  had  finished  our  business  talk ;  "  and  he'll  tell  me 
about  the  playhouse,"  I  said.  After  dinner,  when  we 
had  said  all  we  had  to  say  on  the  possibilities  of  estab- 
lishing local  industries,  the  priest  got  up  suddenly, — 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  take  a  book  from  the  shelves 
to  show  me,  but  he  had  gone  to  fetch  his  knitting, 
and,  without  a  word  of  explanation,  he  began  to  knit. 
I  saw  that  he  was  knitting  stockings,  and  from  the 
rapidity  that  the  needles  went  to  and  fro  I  guessed  that 
he  knitted  every  evening.  It  may  have  been  only  my 
fancy,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  priest  answered 
the  questions  I  addressed  to  him  about  his  books  per- 
functorily; it  even  seemed  to  me  that  he  wished  to 
avoid  literary  conversation.  Yielding  to  his  wish,  or 
what  I  believed  to  be  his  wish,  I  spoke  of  practical 

208 


A   PLAYHOUSE  IN   THE  WASTE 

things,  saying  that  the  worst  feature  of  the  case  was 
that  the  Irish  no  longer  cared  to  live  in  Ireland. 

"  Even  the  well-to-do  want  to  go  away.  The  people 
are  weary  of  the  country ;  they  have  suffered  too  much. 
I  think  that  they  wish  to  lose  themselves." 

"  It  will  be  a  pity,"  the  priest  said. 

"  A  sort  of  natural  euthanasia,"  I  said.  "  A  wish 
to  forget  themselves." 

"  It  will  be  a  pity,"  the  priest  said  again,  and  he 
began  to  speak  of  the  seventh  century,  when  Ireland 
had  a  religion  of  her  own,  an  art  of  her  own,  and  a 
literature  of  her  own. 

We  drew  our  chairs  closer  to  the  fire,  and  we  spoke 
of  the  Cross  of  Cong  and  Cormac's  Chapel,  and  began 
to  mourn  the  race,  as  is  customary  in  these  times. 

"  The  Celt  is  melting  like  snow ;  he  lingers  in  little 
patches  in  the  corners  of  the  field,  and  hands  are 
stretched  from  every  side,  for  it  is  human  to  stretch 
hands  to  fleeting  things,  but  as  well  might  we  try 
to  retain  the  snow." 

But  as  I  grew  despondent  the  priest  grew  hopeful, 
"  No  fine  race  has  ever  been  blotted  out."  His  eyes, 
I  said,  are  as  melancholy  as  the  mountains,  but  nature 
has  destined  him  to  bring  hope  to  the  hopeless,  and 
my  delight  in  his  character  caused  me  to  forget  to 
ask  him  about  the  playhouse.  He  had  started  a  school 
for  lace-making,  but  instead  of  keeping  them  at  home 
it  had  helped  them  to  emigrate;  I  said  that  this  was 
the  worst  feature  of  the  case.  But  the  priest  found 
excellent  reasons  for  thinking  that  the  weaving  in- 
dustry would  prove  more  remunerative;  he  was  sure 
that  if  the  people  could  only  make  a  slight  livelihood 
in  their  own  country  they  would  not  want  to  leave  it. 
14  209 


A   PLAYHOUSE  IN   THE  WASTE 

He  instanced  Ireland  in  the  eighteenth  century, — the 
population  had  been  killed  off  until  only  two  millions 
remained,  and  in  the  nineteenth  century  the  population 
stood  at  eight  millions.  I  listened,  letting  the  priest 
talk  on,  delighting  in  his  incurable  optimism ;  and  when 
the  servant  opened  the  door  and  told  the  priest  he  was 
wanted,  I  saw  him  put  on  his  old  coat,  grown  green 
with  age ;  I  said  to  myself,  "  No  man  in  the  world  is 
better  at  his  own  job  than  this  one;  hope  is  what  they 
want ;"  and  returning  to  the  study  after  seeing  him  off 
I  stopped  suddenly,  seeing  his  eyes  filled  with  kindness 
as  he  sat  by  the  deathbed  and  hearing  his  kind  wisdom. 

That  day  I  had  seen  a  woman  digging  in  a  patch 
of  bog  under  the  grey  sky.  She  wore  a  red  petticoat, 
a  handkerchief  was  tied  round  her  head,  and  the  mo- 
ment she  caught  sight  of  us  she  flung  down  the  spade 
and  ran  to  the  hovel,  and  a  man  appeared  with  a  horn, 
and  he  blew  the  horn,  running  to  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
I  asked  the  driver  the  reason  of  their  alarm,  and  he 
told  me  that  we  had  been  mistaken  for  the  bailiff.  This 
was  true,  for  I  saw  two  little  sheep  hardly  bigger  than 
geese  driven  away.  There  was  a  pool  of  green  water 
about  this  hovel,  and  all  the  hovels  in  the  district  were 
the  same, — one-roomed  hovels,  full  of  peat  smoke,  and 
on  the  hearth  a  black  iron  pot,  with  traces  of  some 
yellow  meal  stirabout  in  it.  The  dying  man  or  woman 
would  be  lying  in  a  corner  on  some  straw,  and  the 
priest  would  speak  a  little  Irish  to  these  outcast  Celts, 
"  to  those  dim  people  who  wander  like  animals  through 
the  waste,"  I  said. 

The  grey  sky  has  blown  over  these  people  for  so 
many  generations  that  it  has  left  them  bare  as  the 
hills.  A  playhouse  for  these  people!  What  defiance 

310 


A   PLAYHOUSE  IN   THE  WASTE 

of  nature's  law !  And  watching  the  shapely  sods  of 
turf  melting  into  white  ash  I  thought  of  the  dim  people 
building  the  playhouse,  obedient  to  the  priest,  unsus- 
picious of  a  new  idea.  A  playhouse  must  have  seemed 
to  them  as  useless  as  a  road  that  leads  nowhere.  The 
priest  told  them  that  people  would  come  to  see  the 
play ;  but  the  idea  of  pleasure  did  not  find  a  way  into 
their  minds.  The  playhouse  had  fallen ! 

I  piled  more  turf  on  the  fire ;  the  priest  did  not  re- 
turn, and  the  moaning  of  the  wind  put  strange  fancies 
into  my  head.  My  driver  had  spoken  of  a  small  white 
thing  gliding  along  the  road,  and  I  regretted  I  had  not 
asked  him  more  about  the  apparition,  if  it  were  an 
apparition.  A  little  later  I  wondered  why  the  priest 
knitted.  "  His  room  is  lined  with  books.  He  does  not 
read,  he  knits, — a  strange  occupation.  He  never  talks 
about  books." 

I  crossed  the  room  to  investigate  the  mystery,  and  I 
discovered  a  heap  of  woollen  stockings.  "  All  these  he 
has  knitted.  But  some  strange  story  hangs  about  him," 
I  said;  and  I  lay  awake  a  long  while  thinking  of  the 
people  I  should  met  on  the  morrow. 

And  never  shall  I  forget  the  spectacle.  There  are 
degrees  in  poverty,  and  I  remember  two  men:  their 
feet  were  bare,  and  their  shirts  were  so  torn  that  the 
curling  breast  hair  was  uncovered.  They  wore  brown 
beards,  and  their  skin  was  yellow  with  famine,  and 
one  of  them  cried  out :  "  The  white  sun  of  heaven  does 
not  shine  upon  two  poorer  men  than  upon  this  man 
and  myself."  After  the  meeting  they  followed  us,  and 
the  poor  people  seemed  to  me  strangely  anxious  to 
tell  of  their  condition.  There  were  some  women  among 
them;  they  were  kept  back  by  the  men,  and  they 

an 


A   PLAYHOUSE   IN   THE   WASTE 

quarrelled  among  themselves,  disputing  who  should 
talk  to  me;  they  had  seen  no  one  except  each  other 
for  a  long  time,  and  I  feared  their  interest  in  the  looms 
was  a  conversational  interest — it  amused  them  to  talk. 

The  priest  brought  a  bundle  of  clothes  out  of  the 
house,  and  when  the  distribution  was  finished,  I  asked 
him  to  come  for  a  walk  up  the  hill  and  show  me  the 
playhouse. 

Again  he  hesitated,  and  I  said,  "  You  must  come, 
Father  MacTurnan,  for  a  walk.  You  must  forget  the 
misfortunes  of  those  people  for  a  while."  He  yielded, 
and  we  spoke  of  the  excellence  of  the  road,  and  he 
told  me  that  when  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  a  play- 
house he  had  arranged  with  the  inspector  that  the  road 
should  go  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 

"It  will  not  make  much  difference,"  he  said,  "  for 
if  there  is  ever  a  harbour  made  the  road  can  be  car- 
ried over  the  hill  right  down  to  the  sea,  and  the  hill, 
as  you  say,  is  not  a  very  steep  one." 

"  There  must  be  a  fine  view  from  the  hill-top,  and 
no  doubt  you  often  go  there  to  read  your  breviary." 

"  During  the  building  of  the  playhouse  I  often  used 
to  be  up  here,  and  during  the  rehearsals  I  was  here 
every  day." 

I  noticed  that  the  tone  of  his  voice  never  altered. 

A  grey,  she  How  sea  had  slowly  eaten  away  the  rotten 
land,  and  the  embay  was  formed  by  two  low  headlands 
hardly  showing  above  the  water  at  high  tide. 

"  I  thought  once,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  if  the  play 
were  a  great  success  a  line  of  flat-bottomed  steamers 
might  be  built." 

"  Pleasant  dreams,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  and  he  sit- 
ing here  in  the  quiet  evenings,  reading  his  breviary, 

212 


A   PLAYHOUSE   IN   THE  WASTE 

dreaming  of  a  line  of  steamships  crowded  with  visi- 
tors. He  has  been  reading  about  the  Oberammergau 
performances."  And  I  spoke  about  these  perform- 
ances, agreeing  with  him  that  no  one  would  have  dared 
to  predict  that  visitors  would  come  from  all  sides  of 
Europe  to  see  a  few  peasants  performing  a  miracle 
play  in  the  Tyrol. 

"  Come,"  I  said,  "  into  the  playhouse.  Let  me  see 
how  you  built  it." 

The  building  was  finished !  The  walls  and  the  roof 
were  finished,  and  a  stage  had  been  erected  at  the  end 
of  the  building.  But  half  a  wall  and  some  of  the  roof 
had  fallen  upon  it,  and  the  rubble  had  not  been  cleared 
away. 

"  It  would  not  cost  many  pounds  to  repair  the  dam- 
age," I  said.  "  And  having  gone  so  far,  you  should 
give  the  play  a  chance." 

I  was  anxious  to  hear  if  he  had  discovered  any  apti- 
tude for  acting  among  the  girls  and  the  boys  who  lived 
in  the  cabins. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  the  play  would  have 
been  very  fairly  acted,  and  I  think  that,  with  a  little 
practice  we  might  have  done  as  well  as  they  did  at 
Oberammergau." 

But  he  was  more  willing  to  discuss  the  play  that  he 
had  chosen  than  the  talents  of  those  who  were  going 
to  perform  it,  and  he  told  me  that  it  had  been  written 
in  the  fourteenth  century  in  Latin,  and  that  he  him- 
self had  translated  it  into  Irish. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  would  have  been  possible  to  organise 
an  excursion  from  Dublin.  If  the  performance  had 
been  judiciously  advertised — '  Oberammergau  in  the 
West.' " 

213 


A   PLAYHOUSE   IN   THE   WASTE 

"  I  used  to  think,"  said  he,  "  it  is  eight  miles  from 
Rathowen,  and  the  road  is  a  bad  one,  and  when  they 
got  here  there  would  be  no  place  for  them  to  stay; 
they  would  have  to  go  all  the  way  back  again,  and  that 
would  be  sixteen  miles." 

"  Yet  it  was  as  well  to  build  this  playhouse  as  to 
make  a  useless  road — a  road  leading  nowhere.  While 
they  were  building  this  playhouse  they  thought  they 
were  accomplishing  something.  Never  before  did  the 
poor  people  do  anything,  except  for  bare  life.  Do  you 
know,  Father  MacTurnan,  your  playhouse  touches  me 
to  the  heart  ?"  and  I  turned  and  looked.  "  Once  Pleas- 
ure hovered  over  your  parish,  but  the  bird  did  not 
alight!  Let  me  start  a  subscription  for  you  in  Dub- 
lin!" 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  it  would  be 
possible " 

"  Not  for  me  to  get  fifty  pounds  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  might  get  the  money,  but  I 
don't  think  we  could  ever  get  up  a  performance  of  the 

play." 

"  And  why  not  ?"  I  said. 

"  You  see,  the  wind  came  and  blew  down  the  wall, 
and  I  think  they  look  upon  that  wind  as  a  manifesta- 
tion of  God's  disapproval.  The  people  are  very  pious, 
and  looking  back  I  think  they  felt  that  the  time  they 
spent  in  rehearsing  might  have  been  better  spent.  The 
idea  of  amusement  shocks  those  who  are  not  accus- 
tomed to  the  idea.  The  playhouse  disturbed  them  in 
their  ideas.  They  hear  Mass  on  Sundays,  and  there 
are  the  Sacraments,  and  they  remember  that  they  have 
to  die.  It  used  to  seem  to  me  a  very  sad  thing  to  see 
all  the  people  going  to  America ;  it  seemed  to  me  the 

214 


A   PLAYHOUSE   IN   THE  WASTE 

saddest  thing  in  the  world  to  see  the  poor  Celt  disap- 
pear in  America,  leaving  his  own  country,  leaving  his 
language,  and  very  often  his  religion." 

"  And  does  it  no  longer  seem  to  you  sad  that  such  a 
thing  should  happen?" 

"  No,  not  if  it  is  the  will  of  God.  God  has  specially 
chosen  the  Irish  race  to  convert  the  world,  no  race 
has  provided  so  many  missionaries,  no  race  has 
preached  the  gospel  more  frequently  to  the  heathen; 
and  once  we  realise  that  we  have  to  die,  and  very  soon, 
and  that  the  Catholic  Church  is  the  only  true  church, 
our  ideas  about  race  and  nationality  fade  from  us. 
They  come  to  seem  very  trite  and  foolish.  We  are 
here,  not  to  make  life  successful  and  triumphant,  but 
to  gain  heaven.  That  is  the  truth,  and  it  is  to  the 
honour  of  the  Irish  people  that  they  have  been  selected 
by  God  to  preach  the  truth,  even  though  they  lose  their 
nationality  in  preaching  it.  I  do  not  expect  you  to 
accept  these  opinions.  I  know  that  you  think  very 
differently,  but  living  here  I  have  learned  to  acquiesce 
in  the  will  of  God." 

The  priest  stopped  speaking  suddenly,  like  one 
ashamed  of  having  expressed  himself  too  openly,  and 
soon  after  we  were  met  by  a  number  of  peasants,  and 
the  priest's  attention  was  engaged ;  the  inspector  of 
the  relief  works  had  to  speak  to  him ;  and  I  did  not  see 
him  again  until  dinner-time. 

"  You  have  given  them  hope,"  he  said. 

This  was  gratifying  to  hear,  and  the  priest  sat  listen- 
ing while  I  told  him  of  the  looms  already  established  in 
different  parts  of  the  country.  We  talked  about  half 
an  hour,  and  then,  like  one  who  suddenly  remembers, 
the  priest  got  up  and  fetched  his  knitting. 

215 


A   PLAYHOUSE  IN   THE  WASTE 

"  Do  you  knit  every  evening  ?" 

"  I  have  got  into  the  way  of  knitting  lately ;  it  passes 
the  time." 

"  But  do  you  never  read  ?"  I  asked,  and  looked  to- 
wards the  book-shelves. 

"  I  used  to  read  a  great  deal.  But  there  wasn't  a 
woman  in  the  parish  that  could  turn  a  heel  properly, 
so  that  I  had  to  learn  to  knit." 

"  Do  you  like  knitting  better  than  reading?"  I  asked, 
feeling  ashamed  of  my  curiosity. 

"  I  have  constantly  to  attend  sick-calls,  and  if  one 
is  absorbed  in  a  book  one  experiences  a  certain  reluc- 
tance in  putting  it  aside." 

"  The  people  are  very  inconsiderate.  Now,  why  did 
that  man  put  off  coming  to  fetch  you  till  eleven  o'clock 
last  night?  He  knew  his  wife  was  ill." 

"  Sometimes  one  is  apt  to  think  them  inconsiderate." 

"  The  two  volumes  of  miracle  plays !" 

"  Yes,  and  that's  another  danger,  a  book  puts  all 
kinds  of  ideas  and  notions  into  one's  head.  The  idea 
of  that  playhouse  came  out  of  those  books." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  you  do  not  think  that  God  sent  the 
storm  because  He  did  not  wish  a  play  to  be  performed." 

"  One  cannot  judge  God's  designs.  Whether  God 
sent  the  storm  or  whether  it  was  accident  must  remain 
a  matter  for  conjecture,  but  it  is  not  a  matter  of  con- 
jecture that  one  is  doing  certain  good  by  devoting  one's 
self  to  one's  daily  task,  getting  the  Government  to  start 
new  relief  works,  establishing  schools  for  weaving — 
the  people  are  entirely  dependent  upon  me,  and  when 
I  am  attending  to  their  wants  I  know  I'm  doing  right. 
All  the  other  is  conjecture." 

The  priest  asked  for  further  information  regarding 
216 


A   PLAYHOUSE   IN   THE  WASTE 

our  system  of  payments,  and  I  answered  eagerly.  I 
had  begun  to  feel  my  curiosity  to  be  disgraceful,  and 
it  was  unnecessary, — my  driver  would  tell  me  to-mor- 
row why  the  playhouse  had  been  abandoned. 

I  relied  on  him  to  tell  me ;  he  was  one  of  those  who 
had  the  faculty  for  hearing  things :  he  had  heard  that 
I  had  been  up  the  hill  with  the  priest  to  see  the  play- 
house; he  knew  all  about  my  walk  with  the  priest, 
and  was  soon  telling  me  that  it  was  the  curse  of  the 
Widow  Sheridan  that  had  brought  down  the  wind  that 
had  wrecked  the  playhouse.  For  it  was  her  daughter 
that  the  priest  had  chosen  to  play  the  part  of  Good 
Deeds  in  the  miracle  play.  And  the  story  the  driver 
told  me  seemed  true  to  the  ideas  of  the  primitive  people 
who  lived  in  the  waste,  and  of  the  waste  itself.  The  girl 
had  been  led  astray  one  evening  returning  from  re- 
hearsal,— in  the  words  of  my  car-driver,  "  She  had 
been  '  wake'  going  home  one  evening,  and  when  the 
signs  of  her  '  weakness'  began  to  show  upon  her,  her 
mother  took  the  halter  off  the  cow  and  tied  the  girl  to 
the  wall  and  kept  her  there  until  the  child  was  born. 
And  Mrs.  Sheridan  put  a  piece  of  string  round  its 
throat  and  buried  it  one  night  near  the  playhouse.  And 
it  was  three  nights  after  that  the  storm  rose,  and  the 
child  was  seen  pulling  the  thatch  out  of  the  roof." 

"  But,  did  she  murder  the  child  ?" 

"  Sorra  wan  of  me  knows.  She  sent  for  the  priest 
when  she  was  dying,  and  told  him  what  she  had  done." 

"  But  the  priest  would  not  reveal  what  he  heard  in 
the  confession?"  I  said. 

"  Mrs.  Sheridan  didn't  die  that  night,  not  till  the  end 
of  the  week;  and  the  neighbours  heard  her  talking 
about  the  child  that  she  buried,  and  then  they  all  knew 

217 


A   PLAYHOUSE  IN   THE   WASTE 

what  the  white  thing  was  that  had  been  seen  by  the 
roadside.  And  the  night  that  the  priest  left  her  he  saw 
the  white  thing  standing  in  front  of  him ;  and  if  he 
hadn't  been  a  priest  he  would  have  dropped  down  dead. 
But  he  knew  well  enough  that  it  was  the  unbaptised 
child,  and  he  took  some  water  from  the  bog-hole  and 
dashed  it  over  it,  saying,  "  I  baptise  thee  in  the  name 
of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.'  " 

The  driver  told  his  story  like  one  saying  his  prayers, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  a  listener. 

"  And  the  ghost  hasn't  been  seen  again  ?"  I  said. 

"  No,  not  that  I  know  of." 

"  I  don't  like  your  story,"  I  said.  "  I  like  the  story 
about  Julia  Cahill  better." 

"  Well,  they're  both  true ;  one's  as  true  as  the  other ; 
and  Julia  and  Margaret  are  in  America.  Once  a 
woman  is  wake  she  must  go  to  America." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  great  shock  to  the  priest." 

"  Faith  it  was,  sir,  to  meet  an  unbaptised  child  on 
the  roadside,  and  the  child  the  only  bastard  that  was 
ever  born  in  the  parish, — so  Tom  Mulhare  says,  and 
he's  the  oldest  man  in  the  county  of  Mayo." 

"  It  was  altogether  a  very  queer  idea,  this  play- 
house." 

"  It  was  indeed,  sir,  a  queer  idea ;  but  you  see  he's 
a  queer  man.  He  has  been  always  thinking  of  some- 
thing to  do  good;  and  it  is  said  that  he  thinks  too 
much.  Father  James  is  a  very  queer  man,  your  hon- 
our." 

At  the  end  of  a  long  silence,  interrupted  now  and 
then  by  the  melancholy  cry  with  which  he  encouraged 
his  horse,  he  began  another  story,  how  Father  James 
MacTurnan  had  written  to  the  Pope  asking  that  the 

218 


A   PLAYHOUSE   IN   THE  WASTE 

priests  might  marry,  "  so  afeard  was  he  that  the  Catho- 
lics were  going  to  America  and  the  country  would 
become  Protestant.  And  there's  James  Murdoch's 
cabin,  and  he  is  the  man  that  got  the  five  pounds  that 
the  bishop  gave  Father  James  to  buy  a  pig."  And 
when  I  asked  him  how  he  knew  all  these  things,  he 
said,  "  There  isn't  many  days  in  the  year  that  the  old 
grey  horse  and  myself  don't  do  five-and-twenty  miles, 
and  I'm  often  in  and  out  of  Rathowen." 

"  There  is  no  doubt,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  that  this 
car-driver  is  the  legitimate  descendant  of  the  ancient 
bards." 


219 


THE  WEDDING-GOWN 


THE    WEDDING-GOWN 

IT  was  said,  but  with  what  truth  I  cannot  say,  that 
the  Roche  property  had  been  owned  by  the  O'Dwyers 
many  years  ago,  several  generations  past,  sometime  in 
the  eighteenth  century.  Only  a  faint  legend  of  this 
ownership  remained ;  only  once  had  young  Mr.  Roche 
heard  of  it,  and  it  was  from  his  mother  he  had  heard 
it;  among  the  country  people  it  was  forgotten.  His 
mother  had  told  him  that  his  great-great-grandfather, 
who  had  made  large  sums  of  money  abroad,  had  in- 
creased his  property  by  purchase  from  the  O'Dwyers, 
who  then  owned,  as  well  as  farmed,  the  hillside  on 
which  the  Big  House  stood.  The  O'Dwyers  them- 
selves had  forgotten  that  they  were  once  much  greater 
people  than  they  now  were,  but  the  master  never  spoke 
to  them  without  remembering  it,  for  though  they  only 
thought  of  themselves  as  small  farmers,  dependents  on 
the  squire,  every  one  of  them,  boys  and  girls  alike, 
retained  an  air  of  high  birth,  which  at  the  first  glance 
distinguished  them  from  the  other  tenants  of  the  estate. 
Though  they  were  not  aware  of  it,  some  sense  of  their 
remote  origin  must  have  survived  in  them,  and  I  think 
that  in  a  still  more  obscure  way  some  sense  of  it  sur- 
vived in  the  country  side,  for  the  villagers  did  not 
think  worse  of  the  O'Dwyers  because  they  kept  them- 
selves aloof  from  the  pleasures  of  the  village  and  its 
squabbles.  The  O'Dwyers  kept  themselves  apart  from 
their  fellows  without  any  show  of  pride,  without 
wounding  anyone's  feelings. 

The  head  of  the  family  was  a  man  of  forty,  and  he 
223 


THE  WEDDING-GOWN 

was  the  trusted  servant,  almost  the  friend,  of  the  young 
master,  he  was  his  bailiff  and  his  steward,  and  he  lived 
in  a  pretty  cottage  by  the  edge  of  the  lake.  O'Dwyer's 
aunts,  they  were  old  women,  of  sixty-eight  and  seventy, 
lived  in  the  Big  House,  the  elder  had  been  cook,  and 
the  younger  housemaid,  and  both  were  now  past  their 
work,  and  they  lived  full  of  gratitude  to  the  young 
master,  to  whom  they  thought  they  owed  a  great  deal. 
He  believed  the  debt  to  be  all  on  his  side,  and  when 
he  was  away  he  often  thought  of  them,  and  when  he 
returned  home  he  went  to  greet  them  as  he  might  go 
to  the  members  of  his  own  family.  The  family  of  the 
O'Dwyer's  was  long  lived,  and  Betty  and  Mary  had  a 
sister  far  older  than  themselves,  Margaret  Kirwin, 
"  Granny  Kirwin,"  as  she  was  called,  and  she  lived  in 
the  cottage  by  the  lake  with  her  nephew,  Alec 
O'Dwyer.  She  was  over  eighty,  it  was  said  that  she 
was  nearly  ninety,  but  her  age  was  not  known  exactly. 
Mary  O'Dwyer  said  that  Margaret  was  nearly  twenty 
years  older  than  she,  but  neither  Betty  nor  Mary  re- 
membered the  exact  date  of  their  sister's  birth.  They 
did  not  know  much  about  her,  for  though  she  was 
their  sister,  she  was  almost  a  stranger  to  them.  She 
had  married  when  she  was  sixteen,  and  had  gone 
away  to  another  part  of  the  country,  and  they  had 
hardly  heard  of  her  for  thirty  years.  It  was  said  that 
she  had  been  a  very  pretty  girl,  and  that  many  men 
had  been  in  love  with  her,  and  it  was  known  for  certain 
that  she  had  gone  away  with  the  son  of  the  game 
keeper  of  the  grandfather  of  the  present  Mr.  Roche, 
so  you  can  understand  what  a  very  long  while  ago  it 
was,  and  how  little  of  the  story  of  her  life  had  come  to 
the  knowledge  of  those  living  now. 

234 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

It  was  certainly  sixty  years  since  she  had  gone  away 
with  this  young  man ;  she  had  lived  with  him  in  Meath 
for  some  years,  nobody  knew  exactly  how  many  years, 
maybe  some  nine  or  ten  years,  and  then  he  had  died 
suddenly,  and  his  death,  it  appears,  had  taken  away 
from  her  some  part  of  her  reason.  It  was  known  for 
certain  that  she  left  Meath  after  his  death,  and  had 
remained  away  many  years.  She  had  returned  to 
Meath  about  twenty  years  ago,  though  not  to  the  place 
she  had  lived  in  before.  Some  said  she  had  expe- 
rienced misfortunes  so  great  that  they  had  unsettled 
her  mind.  She  herself  had  forgotten  her  story,  and  one 
day  news  had  come  to  Galway — news,  but  it  was  sad 
news,  that  she  was  living  in  some  very  poor  cottage  on 
the  edge  of  Navan  town,  where  her  strange  behaviour 
and  her  strange  life  had  made  a  scandal  of  her.  The 
priest  had  to  inquire  out  her  relations,  and  it  took  him 
some  time  to  do  this,  for  the  old  woman's  answers  were 
incoherent,  but  he  at  length  discovered  she  came  from 
Galway,  and  he  had  written  to  the  O'Dwyers.  And 
immediately  on  receiving  the  priest's  letter,  Alec  sent 
his  wife  to  Navan,  and  she  had  come  back  with  the  old 
woman. 

"  And  it  was  time  indeed  that  I  went  to  fetch  her," 
she  said.  '  The  boys  in  the  town  used  to  make  game 
of  her,  and  follow  her,  and  throw  things  at  her,  and 
they  nearly  lost  the  poor  thing  the  little  reason  that  was 
left  to  her.  The  rain  was  coming  in  through  the 
thatch,  there  was  hardly  a  dry  place  in  the  cabin,  and 
she  had  nothing  to  eat  but  a  few  scraps  that  the  neigh- 
bours gave  her.  Latterly  she  had  forgotten  how  to 
make  a  fire,  and  she  ate  the  potatoes  the  neighbours 
gave  her  raw,  and  on  her  back  there  were  only  a  few 
15  225 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

dirty  rags.  She  had  no  care  for  anything  except  for 
her  wedding-gown.  She  kept  that  in  a  box  covered 
over  with  paper  so  that  no  damp  should  get  to  it,  and 
she  was  always  folding  it  and  seeing  that  the  moth 
did  not  touch  it,  and  she  was  talking  of  it  when  I  came 
in  at  the  door.  She  thought  that  I  had  come  to  steal  it 
from  her.  The  neighbours  told  me  that  that  was  the 
way  she  always  was,  thinking  that  someone  had  come 
to  steal  her  wedding-gown." 

This  was  all  the  news  of  Margaret  Kirwin  that  Alec 
O'Dwyer's  wife  brought  back  with  her.  The  old 
woman  was  given  a  room  in  the  cottage,  and  though 
with  food  and  warmth  and  kind  treatment  she  became 
a  little  less  bewildered,  a  little  less  like  a  wild,  hunted 
creature,  she  never  got  back  her  memory  sufficiently 
to  tell  them  all  that  had  happened  to  her  after  her  hus- 
band's death.  Nor  did  she  seem  as  if  she  wanted  to 
try  to  remember,  she  was  garrulous  only  of  her  early 
days  when  the  parish  bells  rang  for  her  wedding,  and 
the  furze  was  in  bloom.  This  was  before  the  Big 
House  on  the  hill  had  been  built.  The  hill  was  then 
a  fine  pasture  for  sheep,  and  Margaret  would  often 
describe  the  tinkling  of  the  sheep-bells  in  the  valley, 
and  the  yellow  furze,  and  the  bells  that  were  ringing 
for  her  wedding.  She  always  spoke  of  the  bells, 
though  no  one  could  understand  where  the  bells  came 
from.  It  was  not  customary  to  ring  the  parish  bell  for 
weddings,  and  there  was  no  other  bell,  so  that  it  was 
impossible  to  say  how  Margaret  could  have  got  the 
idea  into  her  head  that  bells  were  ringing  for  her  when 
she  crossed  the  hill  on  her  way  to  the  church,  dressed 
in  the  beautiful  gown,  which  the  grandmother  of  the 
present  Mr.  Roche  had  dressed  her  in,  for  she  had 

226 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

always  been  the  favourite,  she  said,  with  the  old  mis- 
tress, a  much  greater  favourite  than  even  her  two 
sisters  had  ever  been.  Betty  and  Mary  were  then  little 
children  and  hardly  remembered  the  wedding,  and 
could  say  nothing  about  the  bells. 

Margaret  Kirwin  walked  with  a  short  stick,  her  head 
lifted  hardly  higher  than  the  handle  and  when  the 
family  were  talking  round  the  kitchen  fire  she  would 
come  among  them  for  a  while  and  say  something  to 
them,  and  then  go  away,  and  they  felt  they  had  seen 
someone  from  another  world.  She  hobbled  now  and 
then  as  far  as  the  garden  gate,  and  she  frightened  the 
peasantry,  so  strange  did  she  seem  among  the  flowers 
— so  old  and  forlorn,  almost  cut  off  from  this  world, 
with  only  one  memory  to  link  her  to  it.  It  was  the 
spectral  look  in  her  eyes  that  frightened  them,  for 
Margaret  was  not  ugly.  In  spite  of  all  her  wrinkles 
the  form  of  the  face  remained,  and  it  was  easy,  espe- 
cially when  her  little  grand-niece  was  by,  to  see  that 
sixty-five  years  ago  she  must  have  had  a  long  and 
pleasant  face,  such  as  one  sees  in  a  fox,  and  red  hair 
like  Molly. 

Molly  was  sixteen,  and  her  grey  dress  reached  only 
to  her  ankles.  Everyone  was  fond  of  the  poor  old 
woman ;  but  it  was  only  Molly  who  had  no  fear  of  her 
at  all,  and  one  would  often  see  them  standing  together 
beside  the  pretty  paling  that  separated  the  steward's 
garden  from  the  high  road.  Chestnut-trees  grew  about 
the  house,  and  china  roses  over  the  walls,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  summer  there  would  be  lilies  in  the 
garden,  and  in  the  autumn  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers. 
There  were  a  few  fruit-trees  a  little  further  on,  and, 
lower  down,  a  stream.  A  little  bridge  led  over  the 

227 


THE  WEDDING-GOWN 

stream  into  the  meadow,  and  Molly  and  her  grand- 
aunt  used  to  go  as  far  as  the  bridge,  and  everyone 
wondered  what  the  child  and  the  old  woman  had  to 
say  to  each  other.  Molly  was  never  able  to  give  any 
clear  account  of  what  the  old  woman  said  to  her  during 
the  time  they  spent  by  the  stream.  She  had  tried  once 
to  give  Molly  an  account  of  one  long  winter  when  the 
lake  was  frozen  from  side  to  side.  Then  there  was 
something  running  in  her  mind  about  the  transport  of 
pillars  in  front  of  the  Big  House — how  they  had  been 
drawn  across  the  lake  by  oxen,  and  how  one  of  the 
pillars  was  now  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake.  That 
was  how  Molly  took  up  the  story  from  her,  but  she 
understood  little  of  it.  Molly's  solicitude  for  the  old 
woman  was  a  subject  of  admiration,  and  Molly  did  not 
like  to  take  the  credit  for  a  kindness  and  pity  which  she 
did  not  altogether  feel.  She  had  never  seen  anyone 
dead,  and  her  secret  fear  was  that  the  old  woman  might 
die  before  she  went  away  to  service.  Her  parents  had 
promised  to  allow  her  to  go  away  when  she  was  eigh- 
teen, and  she  lived  in  the  hope  that  her  aunt  would 
live  two  years  longer,  and  that  she  would  be  saved 
the  terror  of  seeing  a  dead  body.  And  it  was  in  this 
intention  that  she  served  her  aunt,  that  she  carefully 
minced  the  old  woman's  food  and  insisted  on  her  eating 
often,  and  that  she  darted  from  her  place  to  fetch  the 
old  woman  her  stick  when  she  rose  to  go.  When  Mar- 
garet Kirwin  was  not  in  the  kitchen  Molly  was  always 
laughing  and  talking,  and  her  father  and  mother  often 
thought  it  was  her  voice  that  brought  the  old  woman 
out  of  her  room.  So  the  day  Molly  was  grieving 
because  she  could  not  go  to  the  dance  the  old  woman 
remained  in  her  room,  and  not  seeing  her  at  tea-time 

228 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

they  began  to  be  afraid,  and  Molly  was  asked  to  go 
fetch  her  aunt. 

"  Something  may  have  happened  to  her,  mother.  I 
daren't  go." 

And  when  old  Margaret  came  into  the  kitchen 
towards  evening  she  surprised  everyone  by  her  ques- 
tion : — • 

"Why  is  Molly  crying?" 

No  one  else  had  heard  Molly  sob,  if  she  had  sobbed, 
but  everyone  knew  the  reason  of  her  grief;  indeed, 
she  had  been  reproved  for  it  many  times  that  day. 

"  I  will  not  hear  any  more  about  it,"  said  Mrs. 
O'Dwyer ;  "  she  has  been  very  tiresome  all  day.  Is  it 
my  fault  if  I  cannot  give  her  a  gown  to  go  to  the 
dance  ?"  And  then,  forgetting  that  old  Margaret  could 
not  understand  her,  she  told  her  that  the  servants  were 
having  a  dance  at  the  Big  House,  and  had  asked  Molly 
to  come  to  it.  "  But  what  can  I  do?  She  has  got  no 
gown  to  go  in.  Even  if  I  had  the  money  there  would 
not  be  time  to  send  for  one  now,  nor  to  make  one.  And 
there  are  a  number  of  English  servants  stopping  at  the 
house ;  there  are  people  from  all  parts  of  the  country, 
they  have  brought  their  servants  with  them,  and  I  am 
not  going  to  see  my  girl  worse  dressed  than  the  others, 
so  she  cannot  go.  She  has  heard  all  this,  she  knows 
it.  ...  I've  never  seen  her  so  tiresome  before."  Mrs. 
O'Dwyer  continued  to  chide  her  daughter;  but  her 
mother's  reasons  for  not  allowing  her  to  go  to  the 
ball,  though  unanswerable,  did  not  seem  to  console 
Molly,  and  she  sat  looking  very  miserable.  "  She  has 
been  sitting  like  that  all  day,"  said  Mrs.  O'Dwyer, 
"  and  I  wish  that  it  were  to-morrow,  for  she  will  not 
be  better  until  it  is  all  over." 

229 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

"  But,  mother,  I  am  saying  nothing ;  I  will  go  to 
bed.  I  don't  know  why  you  are  blaming  me.  I  am 
saying  nothing.  I  can't  help  feeling  miserable." 

"  No,  she  don't  look  a  bit  cheerful,"  the  old  woman 
said,  "  and  I  don't  like  her  to  be  disappointed."  This 
was  the  first  time  that  old  Margaret  had  seemed  to 
understand  since  she  came  to  live  with  them  what  was 
passing  about  her,  and  they  all  looked  at  her,  Mrs. 
O'Dwyer  and  Alec  and  Molly.  They  stood  waiting  for 
her  to  speak  again,  wondering  if  the  old  woman's 
speech  was  an  accident,  or  if  she  had  recovered  her 
mind.  "  It  is  a  hard  thing  for  a  child  at  her  age  not 
to  be  able  to  go  to  the  dance  at  the  Big  House,  now 
that  she  has  been  asked.  No  wonder  Molly  is  unhappy. 
I  remember  the  time  that  I  should  have  been  unhappy 
too,  and  she  is  very  like  me." 

"  But,  Granny,  what  can  I  do  ?  She  can't  go  in  the 
clothes  she  is  wearing,  and  she  has  only  got  one  other 
frock,  the  one  she  goes  to  Mass  in.  I  can't  allow  my 
daughter " 

But  seeing  the  old  woman  was  about  to  speak  Alec 
stopped  his  wife. 

"  Let  us  hear  what  she  has  to  say,"  he  whispered. 

"  There  is  my  wedding-gown :  that  is  surely  beau- 
tiful enough  for  anyone  to  wear.  It  has  not  been  worn 
since  the  day  I  wore  it  when  the  bells  were  ringing, 
and  I  went  over  the  hill  and  was  married ;  and  I  have 
taken  such  care  of  it  that  it  is  the  same  as  it  was  that 
day.  Molly  will  look  very  nice  in  it ;  she  will  look  as  I 
looked  that  day." 

No  one  spoke ;  father,  mother,  and  daughter  stood 
looking  at  the  old  woman.  Her  offer  to  lend  her  wed  • 
ding-dress  had  astonished  them  as  much  as  her  recov- 

230 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

ery  of  her  senses.  Everything  she  once  had,  and  there 
were  tales  that  she  had  once  been  rich,  had  melted 
away  from  her;  nothing  but  this  gown  remained. 
How  she  had  watched  over  it !  Since  she  had  come  to 
live  with  the  O'Dwyers  she  had  hardly  allowed  them 
to  see  it.  When  she  took  it  out  of  its  box  to  air  it  and 
to  strew  it  with  camphor  she  closed  her  room  door. 
Only  once  had  they  seen  it,  and  then  only  for  a  few 
moments.  She  had  brought  it  out  to  show  it,  as  a 
child  brings  its  toy,  but  the  moment  they  stretched 
their  hands  to  touch  it  she  had  taken  it  away,  and  they 
had  heard  her  locking  the  box  it  was  in.  But  now  she 
was  going  to  lend  it  to  Molly.  They  did  not  believe 
she  meant  what  she  was  saying.  They  expected  her 
to  turn  away  and  to  go  to  her  room,  forgetful  of  what 
she  had  said.  Even  if  she  were  to  let  Molly  put  the 
dress  on,  she  would  not  let  her  go  out  of  the  house 
with  it.  She  would  change  her  mind  at  the  last  minute. 

"  When  does  this  dancing  begin  ?"  she  asked,  and 
when  they  told  her  she  said  there  would  be  just  time 
for  her  to  dress  Molly,  and  she  asked  the  girl  and  her 
mother  to  come  into  her  room.  Mrs.  O'Dwyer  feared 
the  girl  would  be  put  to  a  bitter  disappointment,  but  if 
Molly  once  had  the  gown  on  she  would  not  oblige  her 
to  take  it  off. 

"  In  my  gown  you  will  be  just  like  what  I  was  when 
the  bells  were  ringing." 

She  took  the  gown  out  of  its  box  herself,  and  the 
petticoat  and  the  stockings  and  the  shoes;  there  was 
everything  there. 

"  The  old  mistress  gave  me  all  these.  Molly  has  got 
the  hair  I  used  to  have;  she  will  look  exactly  like 
myself.  Are  they  not  beautiful  shoes?"  she  said. 

231 


THE  WEDDING-GOWN 

"  Look  at  the  buckles.  They  will  fit  her  very  well ; 
her  feet  are  the  same  size  as  mine  were." 

And  Molly's  feet  went  into  the  shoes  just  as  if  they 
had  been  made  for  her,  and  the  gown  fitted  as  well  as 
the  shoes,  and  Molly's  hair  was  arranged  as  nearly  as 
possible  according  to  the  old  woman's  fancy,  as  she 
used  to  wear  her  hair  when  it  was  thick  and  red  like 
Molly's. 

The  girl  thought  that  Granny  would  regret  her  gift. 
She  expected  the  old  woman  would  follow  her  into  the 
kitchen  and  ask  her  to  take  the  things  off,  and  that  she 
would  not  be  able  to  go  to  the  ball  after  all.  She  did 
not  feel  quite  safe  until  she  was  a  long  way  from  the 
house,  about  half-way  up  the  drive.  Her  mother  and 
father  had  said  that  the  dance  would  not  be  over  until 
maybe  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  they  offered  her 
the  key  of  the  house;  but  Granny  had  said  that  she 
would  sit  up  for  her. 

"  I  will  doze  a  bit  upon  a  chair.  If  I  am  tired  I  will 
lie  down  upon  my  bed.  I  shall  hear  Molly ;  I  shall  not 
sleep  much.  She  will  not  be  able  to  enter  the  house 
without  my  hearing  her." 

It  was  extraordinary  to  hear  her  speak  like  this,  and, 
a  little  frightened  by  her  sudden  sanity,  they  waited  up 
with  her  until  midnight.  Then  they  tried  to  persuade 
her  to  go  to  bed,  to  allow  them  to  lock  up  the  house ; 
but  she  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  seeming  to  see  the  girl 
dancing  at  the  ball  quite  clearly.  She  seemed  so  con- 
tented that  they  left  her,  and  for  an  hour  she  sat  dream- 
ing, seeing  Molly  young  and  beautifully  dressed  in  the 
wedding-gown  of  more  than  sixty  years  ago. 

Dream  after  dream  went  by,  the  fire  had  burned  low, 
the  sods  were  falling  into  white  ashes,  and  the  moon- 

232 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

light  began  to  stream  into  the  room.  It  was  the 
chilliness  that  had  come  into  the  air  that  awoke  her, 
and  she  threw  several  sods  of  turf  on  to  the  fire. 

An  hour  passed,  and  old  Margaret  awoke  for  the 
last  time. 

"  The  bells  are  ringing,  the  bells  are  ringing,"  she 
said,  and  she  went  to  the  kitchen  door ;  she  opened  it, 
and  stood  in  the  garden  under  the  rays  of  the  moon. 
The  night  of  her  marriage  was  just  such  a  night  as  this 
one,  and  she  had  stood  in  the  garden  amid  the  summer 
flowers,  just  as  she  did  now. 

"  The  day  is  beginning,"  she  said,  mistaking  the 
moonlight  for  the  dawn,  and,  listening,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  heard  once  more  the  sound  of  bells  coming 
across  the  hill.  "  Yes,  the  bells  are  ringing,"  sh-j  said; 
"  I  can  hear  them  quite  clearly,  and  I  must  hurry  and 
get  dressed — I  must  not  keep  him  waiting." 

And  returning  to  the  house,  she  went  to  her  box, 
where  her  gown  had  lain  so  many  years ;  and  though 
no  gown  was  there  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  was 
one,  and  one  more  beautiful  than  the  gown  she  had 
cherished.  It  was  the  same  gown,  only  grown  more 
beautiful.  It  had  grown  into  softer  silk,  into  a  more 
delicate  colour;  it  had  become  more  beautiful,  and 
she  held  the  dream-gown  in  her  hands  and  she  sat 
with  it  in  the  moonlight,  thinking  how  fair  he  would 
find  her  in  it.  Once  her  hands  went  to  her  hair,  and 
then  she  dropped  them  again. 

"  I  must  begin  to  dress  myself ;  I  must  not  keep 
him  waiting." 

The  moonlight  lay  still  upon  her  knees,  but  little 
by  little  the  moon  moved  up  the  sky,  leaving  her  in 
the  shadow. 

233 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

It  was  at  this  moment,  as  the  shadows  grew  denser 
about  old  Margaret,  that  the  child  who  was  dancing 
at  the  ball  came  to  think  of  her  who  had  given  her 
her  gown,  and  who  was  waiting  for  her.  It  was  in 
the  middle  of  a  reel  she  was  dancing,  and  she  was 
dancing  it  with  Mr.  Roche,  that  she  felt  that  some- 
thing had  happened  to  her  aunt. 

"  Mr.  Roche,"  she  said,  "  you  must  let  me  go  away ; 
I  cannot  dance  any  more  to-night.  I  am  sure  that 
something  has  happened  to  my  aunt,  the  old  woman, 
Margaret  Kirwin,  who  lives  with  us  in  the  Lodge.  It 
was  she  who  lent  me  this  gown.  This  was  her 
wedding-gown,  and  for  sixty-five  years  it  has  never 
been  out  of  her  possession.  She  has  hardly  allowed 
anyone  to  see  it;  but  she  said  that  I  was  like  her,  and 
she  heard  me  crying  because  I  had  no  gown  to  go  to 
the  ball,  and  so  she  lent  me  her  wedding-gown." 

"  You  look  very  nice,  Molly,  in  the  wedding-gown, 
and  this  is  only  a  fancy."  Seeing  the  girl  was  fright- 
ened and  wanted  to  go,  he  said :  "  But  why  do  you 
think  that  anything  has  happened  to  your  aunt?" 

"  She  is  very  old." 

"  But  she  is  not  much  older  than  she  was  when  you 
left  her." 

"  Let  me  go,  Mr.  Roche ;  I  think  I  must  go.  I  feel 
sure  that  something  has  happened  to  her.  I  never 
had  such  a  feeling  before,  and  I  could  not  have  that 
feeling  if  there  was  no  reason  for  it." 

"  Well,  if  you  must  go." 

She  glanced  to  where  the  moon  was  shining  and 
ran  down  the  drive,  leaving  Mr.  Roche  looking  after 
her,  wondering  if  after  all  she  might  have  had  a 
warning  of  the  old  woman's  death.  The  night  was 

234 


THE   WEDDING-GOWN 

one  of  those  beautiful  nights  in  May,  when  the  moon 
soars  high  in  the  sky,  and  all  the  woods  and  fields 
are  clothed  in  the  green  of  spring.  But  the  still- 
ness of  the  night  frightened  Molly,  and  when  she 
stopped  to  pick  up  her  dress  she  heard  the  ducks 
chattering  in  the  reeds.  The  world  seemed  divided 
into  darkness  and  light.  The  hawthorn-trees  threw 
black  shadows  that  reached  into  the  hollows,  and 
Molly  did  not  dare  to  go  by  the  path  that  led  through 
a  little  wood,  lest  she  should  meet  Death  there.  For 
now  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  running  a  race 
with  Death,  and  that  she  must  get  to  the  cottage 
before  him.  She  did  not  care  to  take  the  short  cut, 
but  she  ran  till  her  breath  failed  her.  She  ran  on 
again,  but  when  she  went  through  the  wicket  she 
knew  that  Death  had  been  before  her.  She  knocked 
twice;  receiving  no  answer  she  tried  the  latch,  and 
was  surprised  to  find  the  door  unlocked.  There  was 
a  little  fire  among  the  ashes,  and  after  blowing  the 
sod  for  some  time  she  managed  to  light  the  candle, 
and  holding  it  high  she  looked  about  the  kitchen. 

"  Auntie,  are  you  asleep  ?  Have  the  others  gone 
to  bed?" 

She  approached  a  few  steps,  and  then  a  strange 
curiosity  came  over  her,  and  though  she  had  always 
feared  death  she  now  looked  curiously  upon  death, 
and  she  thought  that  she  saw  the  likeness  which  her 
aunt  had  often  noticed. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  she  is  like  me.  I  shall  be  like 
that  some  day  if  I  live  long  enough." 

And  then  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  room 
where  her  parents  were  sleeping. 


235 


THE  CLERK'S  QUEST 


THE    CLERK'S    QUEST 

FOR  thirty  years  Edward  Dempsey  had  worked  low 
down  in  the  list  of  clerks  in  the  firm  of  Quin  and  Wee. 
He  did  his  work  so  well  that  he  seemed  born  to  do  it, 
and  it  was  felt  that  any  change  in  which  Dempsey 
was  concerned  would  be  unlucky.  Managers  had 
looked  at  Dempsey  doubtingly  and  had  left  him  in 
his  habits.  New  partners  had  come  into  the  business, 
but  Dempsey  showed  no  sign  of  interest.  He  was 
interested  only  in  his  desk.  There  it  was  by  the  dim 
window,  there  were  his  pens,  there  was  his  penwiper, 
there  was  the  ruler,  there  was  the  blotting-pad.  Demp- 
sey was  always  the  first  to  arrive  and  the  last  to  leave. 
Once  in  thirty  years  of  service  he  had  accepted  a  holi- 
day. It  had  been  a  topic  of  conversation  all  the 
morning,  and  the  clerks  tittered  when  he  came  into 
the  bank  in  the  afternoon  saying  he  had  been  looking 
into  the  shop  windows  all  the  morning,  and  had  come 
down  to  the  bank  to  see  how  they  were  getting  on. 

An  obscure,  clandestine,  taciturn  little  man,  occu- 
pying in  life  only  the  space  necessary  to  bend  over  a 
desk,  and  whose  conical  head  leaned  to  one  side  as 
if  in  token  of  his  humility. 

It  seemed  that  Dempsey  had  no  other  ambition  than 
to  be  allowed  to  stagnate  at  a  desk  to  the  end  of  his 
life,  and  this  modest  ambition  would  have  been  realised 
had  it  not  been  for  a  slight  accident — the  single  acci- 
dent that  had  found  its  way  into  Dempsey 's  well- 
ordered  and  closely-guarded  life.  One  summer's  day, 

239 


THE  CLERK'S  QUEST 

the  heat  of  the  areas  arose  and  filled  the  open  window, 
and  Dempsey's  somnolescent  senses  were  moved  by 
a  soft  and  suave  perfume.  At  first  he  was  puzzled 
to  say  whence  it  came;  then  he  perceived  that  it 
had  come  from  the  bundle  of  cheques  which  he  held  in 
his  hand ;  and  then  that  the  odoriferous  paper  was  a 
pale  pink  cheque  in  the  middle  of  the  bundle.  He 
had  hardly  seen  a  flower  for  thirty  years,  and  could 
not  determine  whether  the  odour  was  that  of  mignon- 
ette, or  honeysuckle,  or  violet.  But  at  that  moment 
the  cheques  were  called  for;  he  handed  them  to  his 
superior,  and  with  cool  hand  and  clear  brain  continued 
to  make  entries  in  the  ledger  until  the  bank  closed. 

But  that  night,  just  an  he  was  falling  asleep,  a 
remembrance  of  the  insinuating  perfume  returned  to 
him.  He  wondered  whose  cheque  it  was,  and  re- 
gretted not  having  looked  at  the  signature,  and  many 
times  during  the  succeeding  weeks  he  paused  as  he 
was  making  entries  in  the  ledger  to  think  if  the  haunt- 
ing perfume  were  rose,  lavender,  or  mignonette.  It 
was  not  the  scent  of  rose,  he  was  sure  of  that.  And 
a  vague  swaying  of  hope  began.  Dreams  that  had 
died  or  had  never  been  born  floated  up  like  things 
from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  and  many  old  things  that 
he  had  dreamed  about  or  had  never  dreamed  at  all 
drifted  about.  Out  of  the  depths  of  life  a  hope  that 
he  had  never  known,  or  that  the  severe  rule  of  his 
daily  life  had  checked  long  ago,  began  its  struggle 
for  life ;  and  when  the  same  sweet  odour  came  again — 
he  knew  now  it  was  the  scent  of  heliotrope — his  heart 
was  lifted  and  he  was  overcome  in  a  sweet  possessive 
trouble.  He  sought  for  the  cheque  amid  the  bundle  of 
cheques  and,  finding  it,  he  pressed  the  paper  to  his 

240 


THE  CLERK'S  QUEST 

face.  The  cheque  was  written  in  a  thin,  feminine 
handwriting,  and  was  signed  "  Henrietta  Brown,"  and 
the  name  and  handwriting  were  pregnant  with  occult 
significances  in  Dempsey's  disturbed  mind.  His  hand 
paused  amid  the  entries,  and  he  grew  suddenly  aware 
of  some  dim,  shadowy  form,  gracile  and  sweet-smelling 
as  the  spring — moist  shadow  of  wandering  cloud,  ema- 
nation of  earth,  or  woman  herself?  Dempsey  pon- 
dered, and  his  absent-mindedness  was  noticed,  and 
occasioned  comment  among  the  clerks. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  glad  when  the 
office  hours  were  over.  He  wanted  to  be  alone,  he 
wanted  to  think,  he  felt  he  must  abandon  himself  to 
the  new  influence  that  he  had  so  suddenly  and  un- 
expectedly entered  his  life.  Henrietta  Brown!  the 
name  persisted  in  his  mind  like  a  half-forgotten,  half- 
remembered  tune ;  and  in  his  efforts  to  realise  her 
beauty  he  stopped  before  the  photographic  displays 
in  the  shop  windows;  but  none  of  the  famous  or  the 
infamous  celebrities  there  helped  him  in  the  least.  He 
could  only  realise  Henrietta  Brown  by  turning  his 
thoughts  from  without  and  seeking  the  intimate  sense 
of  her  perfumed  cheques.  The  end  of  every  month 
brought  a  cheque  from  Henrietta  Brown,  and  for  a 
few  moments  the  clerk  was  transported  and  lived  be- 
yond himself. 

An  idea  had  fixed  itself  in  his  mind.  He  knew  not 
if  Henrietta  Brown  was  young  or  old,  pretty  or  ugly, 
married  or  single;  the  perfume  and  the  name  were 
sufficient,  and  could  no  longer  be  separated  from  the 
idea,  now  forcing  its  way  through  the  fissures  in  the 
failing  brain  of  this  poor  little  bachelor  clerk — that 
idea  of  light  and  love  and  grace  so  inherent  in  man, 
16  241 


THE   CLERK'S  QUEST 

but  which  rigorous  circumstance  had  compelled  Demp- 
sey  to  banish  from  his  life. 

Dempsey  had  had  a  mother  to  support  for  many 
years,  and  had  found  it  impossible  to  economise.  But 
since  her  death  he  had  laid  by  about  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds.  He  thought  of  this  money  with  awe, 
and  awed  by  his  good  fortune  he  wondered  how  much 
more  he  might  save  before  he  was  forced  to  leave  his 
employment;  and  to  have  touched  a  penny  of  his 
savings  would  have  seemed  to  him  a  sin  near  to  sacri- 
lege. Yet  he  did  not  hesitate  for  a  single  moment  to 
send  Henrietta  Brown,  whose  address  he  had  been  able 
to  obtain  through  the  bank  books,  a  diamond  brooch 
which  had  cost  twenty  pounds.  He  omitted  to  say 
whence  it  had  come,  and  for  days  he  lived  in  a  warm 
wonderment,  satisfied  in  the  thought  that  she  was  wear- 
ing something  that  he  had  seen  and  touched. 

His  ideal  was  now  by  him  and  always,  and  its  do- 
minion was  so  complete  that  he  neglected  his  duties 
at  the  bank,  and  was  censured  by  the  amazed  manager. 
The  change  of  his  condition  was  so  obvious  that  it 
became  the  subject  for  gossip,  and  jokes  were  now 
beginning  to  pass  into  serious  conjecturing.  Dempsey 
took  no  notice,  and  his  plans  matured  amid  jokes  and 
theories.  The  desire  to  write  and  reveal  himself  to 
his  beloved  had  become  imperative ;  and  after  some 
very  slight  hesitation — for  he  was  moved  more  by 
instinct  than  by  reason — he  wrote  a  letter  urging  the 
fatality  of  the  circumstances  that  separated  them,  and 
explaining  rather  than  excusing  this  revelation  of  his 
identity.  His  letter  was  full  of  deference,  but  at  the 
same  time  it  left  no  doubt  as  to  the  nature  of  his  attach- 
ments and  hopes.  The  answer  to  this  letter  was  a 

242 


THE   CLERK'S  QUEST 

polite  note  begging  him  not  to  persist  in  this  corre- 
spondence, and  warning  him  that  if  he  did  it  would 
become  necessary  to  write  to  the  manager  of  the  bank. 
But  the  return  of  his  brooch  did  not  dissuade  Dempsey 
from  the  pursuit  of  his  ideal;  and  as  time  went  by 
it  became  more  and  more  impossible  for  him  to  refrain 
from  writing  love  letters,  and  sending  occasional  pres- 
ents of  jewellery.  When  the  letters  and  the  jewellery 
were  returned  to  him  he  put  them  away  carelessly, 
and  he  bought  the  first  sparkle  of  diamonds  that  caught 
his  fancy,  and  forwarded  ring,  bracelet,  and  ear-ring, 
with  whatever  word  of  rapturous  love  that  came  up  in 
his  mind. 

One  day  he  was  called  into  the  manager's  room, 
severely  reprimanded,  and  eventually  pardoned  in  con- 
sideration of  his  long  and  faithful  service.  But  the 
reprimands  of  his  employers  were  of  no  use  and  he 
continued  to  write  to  Henrietta  Brown,  growing  more 
and  more  careless  of  his  secret.  He  dropped  brooches 
about  the  office,  and  his  letters.  At  last  the  story  was 
whispered  from  desk  to  desk.  Dempsey 's  dismissal 
was  the  only  course  open  to  the  firm ;  and  it  was  with 
much  regret  that  the  partners  told  their  old  servant 
that  his  services  were  no  longer  required. 

To  their  surprise  Dempsey  seemed  quite  unaffected 
by  his  dismissal ;  he  even  seemed  relieved,  and  left  the 
bank  smiling,  thinking  of  Henrietta,  bestowing  no 
thought  on  his  want  of  means.  He  did  not  even  think 
of  providing  himself  with  money  by  the  sale  of  some 
of  the  jewellery  he  had  about  him,  nor  of  his  going 
to  his  lodging  and  packing  up  his  clothes,  he  did  not 
think  how  he  should  get  to  Edinburgh — it  was  there 
that  she  lived.  He  thought  of  her  even  to  the  ex- 

243 


THE  CLERK'S  QUEST 

elusion  of  the  simplest  means  of  reaching  her,  and  was 
content  to  walk  about  the  streets  in  happy  mood,  wait- 
ing for  glimpses  of  some  evanescent  phantom  at  the 
wood's  edge  wearing  a  star  on  her  forehead,  or  catch- 
ing sight  in  the  wood's  depths  of  a  glistening  shoul- 
der and  feet  flying  towards  the  reeds.  Full  of  happy 
aspiration  he  wandered  seeking  the  country  through 
the  many  straggling  villages  that  hang  like  children 
round  the  skirts  of  Dublin,  and  was  passing  through 
one  of  these  at  nightfall,  and,  feeling  tired,  he  turned 
into  the  bar  of  an  inn,  and  asked  for  bread  and 
cheese. 

"  Come  a  long  way,  governor  ?"  said  one  of  two 
rough  fellows. 

"  I  am  going  a  long  way,"  replied  Dempsey ;  "  I 
am  going  north — very  far  north." 

"  And  what  may  yer  be  going  north  for,  if  I  may 
make  bold  to  ask?" 

"  I  am  going  to  the  lady  I  love,  and  I  am  taking 
her  beautiful  presents  of  jewellery." 

The  two  rough  fellows  exchanged  glances;  and  it 
is  easy  to  imagine  how  Dempsey  was  induced  to  let 
them  have  his  diamonds,  so  that  inquiries  might  be 
made  of  a  friend  round  the  corner  regarding  their 
value.  After  waiting  a  little  while,  Dempsey  paid  for 
his  bread  and  cheese,  and  went  in  search  of  the  thieves. 
But  the  face  of  Henrietta  Brown  obliterated  all  re- 
membrance of  thieves  and  diamonds,  and  he  wandered 
for  a  few  days,  sustained  by  his  dream  and  the  crusts 
that  his  appearance  drew  from  the  pitiful.  At  last 
he  even  neglected  to  ask  for  a  crust,  and,  foodless, 
followed  the  beckoning  vision,  from  sunrise  to  sun- 
down 

244 


THE   CLERK'S  QUEST 

It  was  a  soft,  quiet  summer's  night  when  Dempsey 
lay  down  to  sleep  for  the  last  time.  He  was  very 
tired,  he  had  been  wandering  all  day,  and  threw  him- 
self on  the  grass  by  the  roadside.  He  lay  there  look- 
ing up  at  the  stars,  thinking  of  Henrietta,  knowing  that 
everything  was  slipping  away,  and  he  passing  into  a 
diviner  sense.  Henrietta  seemed  to  be  coming  nearer 
to  him  and  revealing  herself  more  clearly ;  and  when 
the  word  of  death  was  in  his  throat,  and  his  eyes 
opened  for  the  last  time,  it  seemed  to  him  that  one  of 
the  stars  came  down  from  the  sky  and  laid  its  bright 
face  upon  his  shoulder. 


245 


"ALMS-GIVING" 


"  ALMS-GIVING" 

As  I  searched  for  a  penny  it  began  to  rain.  The 
blind  man  opened  a  parcel  and  I  saw  that  it  contained 
a  small  tarpaulin  cape.  But  the  several  coats  I  wore 
made  it  difficult  to  find  my  change;  I  thought  I  had 
better  forego  my  charity  that  day,  and  I  walked  away. 

"  Eight  or  nine  hours  a  day  waiting  for  alms  is  his 
earthly  lot,"  I  said,  and  walking  towards  the  river, 
and  leaning  on  the  parapet,  I  wondered  if  he  recog- 
nised the  passing  step  —  if  he  recognised  my  step  — 
and  associated  them  with  a  penny?  Of  what  use  that 
he  should  know  the  different  steps?  if  he  knew  them 
there  would  be  anticipation  and  disappointments.  But 
a  dog  would  make  life  comprehensible ;  and  I  imag- 
ined a  companionship,  a  mingling  of  muteness  and 
blindness,  and  the  joy  that  would  brighten  the  darkness 
when  the  dog  leaped  eagerly  upon  the  blind  man's 
knees.  I  imagined  the  joy  of  warm  feet  and  limb,  and 
the  sudden  poke  of  the  muzzle.  A  dog  would  be  a  link 
to  bind  the  blind  beggar  to  the  friendship  of  life.  Now 
why  has  this  small  blind  man,  with  a  face  as  pale  as 
a  plant  that  never  sees  the  sun,  not  a  dog?  A  dog  is 
the  natural  link  and  the  only  link  that  binds  the  blind 
beggar  to  the  friendship  of  life. 

Looking  round,  I  could  see  that  he  was  taking  off 
his  little  cape,  for  it  had  ceased  raining.  But  in  a  few 
weeks  it  would  rain  every  day,  and  the  wind  would 
blow  from  the  river  in  great  gusts.  "  Will  he  brave 

249 


"ALMS-GIVING" 

another  winter  ?"  I  asked  myself.  "  Iron  blasts  will 
sweep  through  the  passage ;  they  will  find  him  through 
the  torn  shirt  and  the  poor  grey  trousers,  the  torn 
waist-coat,  the  black  jacket,  and  the  threadbare  over- 
coat— someone's  cast-off  garment.  .  .  .  Now,  he  may 
have  been  born  blind,  or  he  may  have  become  blind; 
in  any  case  he  has  been  blind  for  many  years,  and 
if  he  persist  in  living  he  will  have  to  brave  many  win- 
ters in  that  passage,  for  he  is  not  an  old  man.  What 
instinct  compels  him  to  bear  his  dark  life?  Is  he 
afraid  to  kill  himself?  Does  this  fear  spring  from 
physical  or  from  religious  motives?  Fear  of  hell? 
Surely  no  other  motive  would  enable  him  to  endure  his 
life." 

In  my  intolerance  for  all  life  but  my  own  I  thought 
I  could  estimate  the  value  of  the  Great  Mockery,  and 
I  asked  myself  angrily  why  he  persisted  in  living. 
I  asked  myself  why  I  helped  him  to  live.  It  would 
be  better  that  he  should  throw  himself  at  once  into  the 
river.  And  this  was  reason  talking  to  me,  and  it  told  me 
that  the  most  charitable  act  I  could  do  would  be  to  help 
him  over  the  parapet.  But  behind  reason  there  is  in- 
stinct, and  in  obedience  to  an  impulse,  which  I  could 
not  weigh  or  appreciate,  I  went  to  the  blind  man  and 
put  some  money  into  his  hand ;  the  small  coin  slipped 
through  his  fingers ;  they  were  so  cold  that  he  could 
not  retain  it,  and  I  had  to  pick  it  from  the  ground. 
"  Thankee,  sir.  Can  you  tell,  sir,  what  time  it  is  ?" 
And  this  little  question  was  my  recompense.  He 
and  I  wanted  to  know  the  time.  I  asked  him  why 
he  wanted  to  know  the  time,  and  he  told  me  because 
that  evening  a  friend  was  coming  to  fetch  him.  And, 
wondering  who  that  friend  might  be,  and,  hoping  he 

250 


"  ALMS-GIVING" 

might  tell  me,  I  asked  him  about  his  case  of  pencils, 
expressing  a  hope  that  he  sold  them.  He  answered 
that  he  was  doing  a  nice  bit  of  trading. 

"  The  boys  about  here  are  a  trouble,"  he  said,  "  but 
the  policeman  on  the  beat  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  he 
watches  them  and  makes  them  count  the  pencils  they 
take.  The  other  day  they  robbed  me,  and  he  gave 
them  such  a  cuffing  that  I  don't  think  they'll  take 
my  pencils  again.  You  see,  sir,  I  keep  the  money 
I  take  for  the  pencils  in  the  left  pocket,  and  the  money 
that  is  given  to  me  I  keep  in  the  right  pocket.  In 
this  way  I  know  if  my  accounts  are  right  when  I 
make  them  up  in  the  evening." 

Now  where,  in  what  lonely  room  does  he  sit  making 
up  his  accounts  ?  but,  not  wishing  to  seem  inquisitorial, 
I  turned  the  conversation. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  some  of  the  passers-by." 

"  Yes,  I  know  a  tidy  few.  There's  one  genetleman 
who  gives  me  a  penny  every  day,  but  he's  gone  abroad, 
I  hear,  and  sixpence  a  week  is  a  big  drop." 

As  I  had  given  him  a  penny  a  day  all  the  summer, 
I  assumed  he  was  speaking  of  me.  And  my  sixpence 
a  week  meant  a  day's  dinner,  perhaps  two  days'  din- 
ners! It  was  only  necessary  for  me  to  withhold  my 
charity  to  give  him  ease.  He  would  hardly  be  able 
to  live  without  my  charity,  and  if  one  of  his  other 
patrons  were  to  do  likewise  the  world  would  be  freed 
from  a  life  that  I  could  not  feel  to  be  of  any  value. 

So  do  we  judge  the  world  if  we  rely  on  our  rea- 
son, but  instinct  clings  like  a  child  and  begs  like  a 
child,  and  my  instinct  begged  me  to  succour  this  poor 
man,  to  give  him  a  penny  every  day,  to  find  out  what 
his  condition  was,  and  to  stop  for  a  chat  every  time 

251 


"  ALMS-GIVING" 

I  gave  him  my  penny.  I  had  obeyed  my  instinct  all 
the  summer,  and  now  reason  had  intervened,  reason 
was  in  rebellion,  and  for  a  long  time  I  avoided,  or 
seemed  to  avoid,  the  passage  where  the  blind  man  sat 
for  eight  or  nine  hours,  glad  to  receive,  but  never 
asking  for  alms. 

I  think  I  forgot  the  blind  man  for  several  months. 
I  only  remembered  him  when  I  was  sitting  at  home,  or 
when  I  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  town,  and  some- 
times I  thought  I  made  myself  little  excuses  not  to 
pass  through  the  passage.  Our  motives  are  so  vague, 
so  complex  and  many,  that  one  is  never  quite  sure  why 
one  does  a  thing,  and  if  I  were  to  say  that  I  did  not 
give  the  blind  man  pennies  that  winter  because  I  be- 
lieved it  better  to  deprive  him  of  his  means  of  livelihood 
and  force  him  out  of  life  than  to  help  him  to  remain  in 
life  and  suffer,  I  should  be  saying  what  was  certainly 
untrue,  yet  the  idea  was  in  my  mind,  and  I  experienced 
more  than  one  twinge  of  conscience  when  I  passed 
through  the  passage.  I  experienced  remorse  when  I 
hurried  past  him,  too  selfish  to  unbutton  my  coat,  for 
every  time  I  hapened  to  pass  him  it  was  raining  or 
blowing  very  hard,  and  every  time  I  hurried  away 
trying  to  find  reasons  why  he  bore  his  miserable  life. 
I  hurried  to  my  business,  my  head  full  of  chatter  about 
St.  Simon's  Stylites,  telling  myself  that  he  saw  God 
far  away  at  the  end  of  the  sky,  His  immortal  hands 
filled  with  immortal  recompenses;  reason  chattered 
about  the  compensation  of  celestial  choirs,  but  instinct 
told  me  that  the  blind  man  standing  in  the  stone 
passage  knew  of  such  miraculous  consolations. 

As  the  winter  advanced,  as  the  winds  grew  harsher, 
my  avoidance  of  the  passage  grew  more  marked,  and 

252 


"  ALMS-GIVING" 

one  day  I  stopped  to  think,  and  asked  myself  why  I 
avoided  it. 

There  was  a  faint  warmth  in  the  sky,  and  I  heard 
my  heart  speaking  to  me  quite  distinctly,  and  it 
said : — 

"  Go  to  the  blind  man — what  matter  about  your  ten 
minutes'  delay;  you  have  been  unhappy  since  you 
refrained  from  alms-giving,  and  the  blind  beggar  can 
feel  the  new  year  beginning." 

"  You  see,  sir,  I  have  added  some  shirt  buttons 
and  studs  to  the  pencils.  I  don't  know  how  they  will 
go,  but  one  never  knows  till  one  tries." 

Then  he  told  me  it  was  smallpox  that  destroyed 
his  eyes,  and  he  was  only  eighteen  at  the  time. 

"  You  must  have  suffered  very  much  when  they  told 
you  your  sight  was  going?" 

"  Yes,  sir.    I  had  the  hump  for  six  weeks." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  It  doubled  me  up,  that  it  did.  I  sat  with  my  head 
in  my  hands  for  six  weeks." 

"And  after  that?" 

"  I  didn't  think  any  more  about  it — what  was  the 
good?" 

"  Yes,  but  it  must  be  difficult  not  to  think,  sitting 
here  all  alone." 

"  One  mustn't  allow  one's  self  to  give  way.  One 
would  break  down  if  one  did.  I've  some  friends,  and 
in  the  evening  I  get  plenty  of  exercise." 

"  What  do  you  do  in  the  evenings  ?" 

"  I  turn  a  hay-cutting  machine  in  a  stable." 

"  And  you're  quite  contented  ?" 

"  I  don't  think,  sir,  a  happier  man  than  I  passes 
through  this  gate-way  once  a  month." 

253 


"ALMS-GIVING" 

He  told  me  his  little  boy  came  to  fetch  him  in  the 
evening. 

"You're  married?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  I've  got  four  children.  They're  going 
away  for  their  holidays  next  week." 

"Where  are  they  going?" 

"  To  the  sea.  It  will  do  them  good ;  a  blow  on  the 
beach  will  do  them  a  power  of  good." 

"  And  when  they  come  back  they  will  tell  you  about 
it?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  do  you  ever  go  away  for  a  holiday?" 

"  Last  year  I  went  with  a  policeman.  A  gentleman 
who  passes  this  way,  one  of  my  friends,  paid  four 
shillings  for  me.  We  had  a  nice  dinner  in  a  public 
house  for  a  shilling,  and  then  we  went  for  a  walk." 

"  And  this  year  are  you  going  with  the  policeman?" 

"  I  hope  so,  a  friend  of  mine  gave  me  half-a-crown 
towards  it." 

"  I'll  give  you  the  rest." 

"  Thankee^  sir." 

A  soft  south  wind  was  blowing,  and  an  instinct  as 
soft  and  as  gentle  filled  my  heart,  and  I  went  towards 
some  trees.  The  new  leaves  were  beginning  in  the 
branches ;  and  sitting  where  sparrows  were  building 
their  nests,  I  soon  began  to  see  further  into  life  than  I 
had  seen  before.  "  We're  here,"  I  said,  "  for  the  pur- 
pose of  learning  what  life  is,  and  the  blind  beggar  has 
taught  me  a  great  deal,  something  that  I  could  not 
have  learnt  out  of  a  book,  a  deeper  truth  than  any  book 
contains."  .  .  .  And  then  I  ceased  to  think,  for  think- 
ing is  a  folly  when  a  soft  south  wind  is  blowing,  and 
an  instinct  as  soft  and  as  gentle  fills  the  heart. 

254 


SO  ON  HE  FARES 


SO    ON    HE    FARES 

His  mother  had  forbidden  him  to  stray  about  the 
roads,  and  standing  at  the  garden  gate,  little  Ulick 
Burke  often  thought  he  would  like  to  run  down  to 
the  canal  and  watch  the  boats  passing.  His  father 
used  to  take  him  for  walks  along  the  towing  path, 
but  his  father  had  gone  away  to  the  wars  two  years 
ago,  and  standing  by  the  garden  gate  he  remembered 
how  his  father  used  to  stop  to  talk  to  the  lock-keepers. 
Their  talk  often  turned  upon  the  canal  and  its  business, 
and  Ulick  remembered  that  the  canal  ended  in  the 
Shannon,  and  that  the  barges  met  ships  coming  up 
from  the  sea. 

He  was  a  pretty  child  with  bright  blue  eyes,  soft 
curls,  and  a  shy  winning  manner,  and  he  stood  at  the 
garden  gate  thinking  how  the  boats  rose  up  in  the 
locks,  how  the  gate  opened  and  let  the  boats  free,  and 
he  wondered  if  his  father  had  gone  away  to  the  war 
in  one  of  the  barges.  He  felt  sure  if  he  were  going 
away  to  the  war  he  would  go  in  a  barge.  And  he 
wondered  if  the  barge  went  as  far  as  the  war  or  only 
as  far  as  the  Shannon?  He  would  like  to  ask  his 
mother,  but  she  would  say  he  was  troubling  her  with 
foolish  questions,  or  she  would  begin  to  think  again 
that  he  wanted  to  run  away  from  home.  He  won- 
dered if  he  were  to  hide  himself  in  one  of  the  barges 
whether  it  would  take  him  to  a  battlefield  where  he 
would  meet  his  father  walking  about  with  a  gun  upon 
his  shoulder? 

And  leaning  against  the  gate-post,  he  swung  one 
i7  257 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

foot  across  the  other,  though  he  had  been  told  by  his 
mother  that  he  was  like  one  of  the  village  children 
when  he  did  it.  But  his  mother  was  always  telling 
him  not  to  do  something,  and  he  could  not  remember 
everything  he  must  not  do.  He  had  been  told  not  to 
go  to  the  canal  lest  he  should  fall  in,  nor  into  the  field 
lest  he  should  tear  his  trousers.  He  had  been  told  he 
must  not  run  in  about  in  the  garden  lest  he  should  tread 
on  the  flowers,  and  his  mother  was  always  telling  him 
he  was  not  to  talk  to  the  school  children  as  they 
came  back  from  school,  though  he  did  not  want  to  talk 
to  them.  There  was  a  time  when  he  would  have  liked 
to  talk  to  them,  now  he  ran  to  the  other  side  of  the 
garden  when  they  were  coming  home  from  school; 
but  there  was  no  place  in  the  garden  where  he  could 
hide  himself  from  them,  unless  he  got  into  the  dry 
ditch.  The  school  children  were  very  naughty  chil- 
dren; they  climbed  up  the  bank,  and,  holding  on  to 
the  paling,  they  mocked  at  him;  and  their  mockery 
was  to  ask  him  the  way  to  "  Hill  Cottage ;"  for  his 
mother  had  had  the  name  painted  on  the  gate,  and 
no  one  else  in  the  parish  had  given  their  cottage  a 
name. 

However,  he  liked  the  dry  ditch,  and  under  the 
branches,  where  the  wren  had  built  her  nest,  Ulick 
was  out  of  his  mother's  way,  and  out  of  the  way  of 
the  boys;  and  lying  among  the  dead  leaves  he  could 
think  of  the  barges  floating  away,  and  of  his  tall  father 
who  wore  a  red  coat  and  let  him  pull  his  moustache. 
He  was  content  to  lie  in  the  ditch  for  hours,  thinking 
he  was  a  bargeman  and  that  he  would  like  to  use  a 
sail.  His  father  had  told  him  that  the  boats  had  sails 
on  the  Shannon — if  so  it  would  be  easy  to  sail  to  the 

258 


SO   ON   HE   FARES 

war ;  and  breaking  off  in  the  middle  of  some  wonder- 
ful war  adventure,  some  tale  about  his  father  and  his 
father's  soldiers,  he  would  grow  interested  in  the  life 
of  the  ditch,  in  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wren,  in 
the  chirrup  of  a  bird  in  the  tall  larches  that  grew  be- 
yond the  paling. 

Beyond  the  paling  there  was  a  wood  full  of  moss- 
grown  stones  and  trees  overgrown  with  ivy,  and  Ulick 
thought  that  if  he  only  dared  to  get  over  the  paling  and 
face  the  darkness  of  the  hollow  on  the  other  side  of  the 
paling,  he  could  run  across  the  meadow  and  call  from 
the  bank  to  a  steersman.  The  steersman  might  take 
him  away !  But  he  was  afraid  his  mother  might  follow 
him  on  the  next  barge,  and  he  dreamed  a  story  of 
barges  drawn  by  the  swiftest  horses  in  Ireland. 

But  dreams  are  but  a  makeshift  life.  He  was  very 
unhappy,  and  though  he  knew  it  was  wrong  he  could 
not  help  laying  plans  for  escape.  Sometimes  he 
thought  that  the  best  plan  would  be  to  set  fire  to  the 
house;  for  while  his  mother  was  carrying  pails  of 
water  from  the  back  yard  he  would  run  away ;  but  he 
did  not  dare  to  think  out  his  plan  of  setting  fire  to  the 
house,  lest  one  of  the  spirits  which  dwelt  in  the  hollow 
beyond  the  paling  should  come  and  drag  him  down  a 
hole. 

One  day  he  forgot  to  hide  himself  in  the  ditch,  and 
the  big  boy  climbed  up  the  bank,  and  asked  him  to 
give  him  some  gooseberries,  and  though  Ulick  would 
have  feared  to  gather  gooseberries  for  himself  he  did 
not  like  to  refuse  the  boy,  and  he  gave  him  some, 
hoping  that  the  big  boy  would  not  laugh  at  him  again. 
And  they  became  friends,  and  very  soon  he  was  friends 
with  them  all,  and  they  had  many  talks  clustered  in 

259 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

the  corner,  the  children  holding  on  to  the  palings,  and 
Ulick  hiding  behind  the  hollyhocks  ready  to  warn 
them. 

"  It's  all  right,  she's  gone  to  the  village,"  Ulick 
said,  one  day  the  big  boy  asked  him  to  come  with 
them,  they  were  going  to  spear  eels  in  the  brook,  and 
he  was  emboldened  to  get  over  the  fence  and  to  follow 
across  the  meadow,  through  the  hazels,  and  very  soon 
it  seemed  to  him  that  they  had  wandered  to  the  world's 
end.  At  last  they  came  to  the  brook  and  the  big  boy 
turned  up  his  trousers,  and  Ulick  saw  him  lifting  the 
stones  with  his  left  hand  and  plunging  a  fork  into  the 
water  with  his  right.  When  he  brought  up  a  strug- 
gling eel  at  the  end  of  the  fork  Ulick  clapped  his  hands 
and  laughed,  and  he  had  never  been  so  happy  in  his 
life  before. 

After  a  time  there  were  no  more  stones  to  raise,  and 
sitting  on  the  bank  they  began  to  tell  stories.  His 
companions  asked  him  when  his  father  was  coming 
back  from  the  wars,  and  he  told  them  how  his  father 
used  to  take  him  for  walks  up  the  canal,  and  how  they 
used  to  meet  a  man  who  had  a  tame  rat  in  his  pocket. 
Suddenly  the  boys  and  girls  started  up,  crying  "  Here's 
the  farmer,"  and  they  ran  wildly  across  the  fields. 
However,  they  got  to  the  high  road  long  before  the 
farmer  could  catch  them,  and  his  escape  enchanted 
Ulick.  Then  the  children  went  their  different  ways, 
the  big  boy  staying  with  Ulick,  who  thought  he  must 
offer  him  some  gooseberries.  So  they  crossed  the 
fence  together  and  crouched  under  the  bushes,  and 
ate  the  gooseberries  till  they  wearied  of  them.  After- 
wards they  went  to  look  at  the  bees,  and  while  looking 
at  the  insects  crawling  in  and  out  of  their  little  door, 

260 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

Ulick  caught  sight  of  his  mother,  and  she  coming 
towards  them.  Ulick  cried  out,  but  the  big  boy  was 
caught  before  he  could  reach  the  fence,  and  Ulick 
saw  that,  big  as  the  boy  was,  he  could  not  save  him- 
self from  a  slapping.  He  kicked  out,  and  then  blub- 
bered, and  at  last  got  away.  In  a  moment  it  would 
be  Ulick's  turn,  and  he  feared  she  would  beat  him 
more  than  she  had  beaten  the  boy — for  she  hated  him, 
whereas  she  was  only  vexed  with  the  boy — she  would 
give  him  bread  and  water — he  had  often  had  a  beat- 
ing and  bread  and  water  for  a  lesser  wickedness  than 
the  bringing  of  one  of  the  village  boys  into  the  garden 
to  eat  gooseberries. 

He  put  up  his  right  hand  and  saved  his  righ  cheek, 
and  then  she  tried  to  slap  him  on  the  left,  but  he  put 
up  his  left  hand,  and  this  went  on  until  she  grew  so 
angry  that  Ulick  thought  he  had  better  allow  her  to 
slap  him,  for  if  she  did  not  slap  him  at  once  she  might 
kill  him. 

"  Down  with  your  hands,  sir,  down  with  your  hands, 
sir,"  she  cried,  but  before  he  had  time  to  let  her  slap 
him  she  said :  "  I  will  give  you  enough  of  bees,"  and 
she  caught  one  that  had  rested  on  a  flower  and  put 
it  down  his  neck.  The  bee  stung  him  in  the  neck 
where  the  flesh  is  softest,  and  he  ran  away  screaming, 
unable  to  rid  himself  of  the  bee.  He  broke  through 
the  hedges  of  sweet  pea,  and  he  dashed  through  the 
poppies,  trampling  through  the  flower  beds,  until  he 
reached  the  dry  ditch. 

There  is  something  frightful  in  feeling  a  stinging 
insect  in  one's  back,  and  Ulick  lay  in  the  dry  ditch, 
rolling  among  the  leaves  in  anguish.  He  thought  he 
was  stung  all  over,  he  heard  his  mother  laughing, 

261 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

and  she  called  him  a  coward  through  an  opening  in 
the  bushes,  but  he  knew  she  could  not  follow  him 
down  the  ditch.  His  neck  had  already  begun  to  swell, 
but  he  forgot  the  pain  of  the  sting  in  hatred.  He  felt 
he  must  hate  his  mother,  however  wicked  it  might 
be  to  do  so.  His  mother  had  often  slapped  him,  he 
had  heard  of  boys  being  slapped,  but  no  one  had  ever 
put  a  bee  down  a  boy's  back  before;  he  felt  he  must 
always  hate  her,  and  creeping  up  through  the  brambles 
to  where  he  could  get  a  view  of  the  garden,  he  waited 
until  he  saw  her  walk  up  the  path  into  the  house ;  and 
then,  stealing  back  to  the  bottom  of  the  ditch,  he  re- 
solved to  get  over  the  paling.  A  few  minutes  after 
he  heard  her  calling  him,  and  then  he  climbed  the 
paling,  and  he  crossed  the  dreaded  hollow,  stumbling 
over  the  old  stones. 

As  he  crossed  the  meadow  he  caught  sight  of  a  boat 
coming  through  the  lock,  but  the  lock-keeper  knew 
him  by  sight,  and  would  tell  the  bargeman  where  he 
came  from,  and  he  would  be  sent  home  to  his  mother. 
He  ran  on,  trying  to  get  ahead  of  the  boat,  creeping 
through  hedges,  frightened  lest  he  should  not  be  able 
to  find  the  canal !  Now  he  stopped,  sure  that  he  had 
lost  it ;  his  brain  seemed  to  be  giving  way,  and  he  ran 
on  like  a  mad  child  up  the  bank.  Oh,  what  joy !  The 
canal  flowed  underneath  the  bank.  The  horse  had 
just  passed,  the  barge  was  coming,  and  Ulick  ran  down 
the  bank  calling  to  the  bargeman.  He  plunged  into 
the  water,  getting  through  the  bulrushes.  Half  of 
the  barge  had  passed  him,  and  he  held  out  his  hands. 
The  ground  gave  way  and  he  went  under  the  water; 
green  light  took  the  place  of  day,  and  when  he  strug- 
gled to  the  surface  he  saw  the  rudder  moving.  He 

262 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

went  under  again,  and  remembered  no  more  until  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  saw  the  bargeman  leaning  over 
him. 

"  Now,  what  ails  you  to  be  throwing  yourself  into 
the  water  in  that  way?" 

Ulick  closed  his  eyes ;  he  had  no  strength  for 
answering  him,  and  a  little  while  after  he  heard  some- 
one come  on  board  the  barge,  and  he  guessed  it  must 
be  the  man  who  drove  the  horse.  He  lay  with  his 
eyes  closed,  hearing  the  men  talking  of  what  they 
should  do  with  him.  He  heard  a  third  voice  and 
guessed  it  must  be  a  man  come  up  from  the  cabin. 
This  man  said  it  would  be  better  to  take  him  back  to 
the  last  lock,  and  they  began  to  argue  about  who  should 
carry  him.  Ulick  was  terribly  frightened,  and  he  was 
just  going  to  beg  of  them  not  to  bring  him  back  when 
he  heard  one  of  them  say,  "  It  will  be  easier  to  leave 
him  at  the  next  lock."  Soon  after,  he  felt  the  boat 
start  again,  and  when  Ulick  opened  his  eyes,  he  saw 
hedges  gliding  past,  and  he  hoped  the  next  lock  was  a 
long  way  off. 

"  Now,"  said  the  steersman,  "  since  you  are  awaking 
out  of  your  faint  you'll  be  telling  us  where  you  come 
from,  because  we  want  to  send  you  home  again." 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  from  a  long  way  off,  the  Shan- 
non." 

"  The  Shannon !"  said  the  bargeman.  "  Why,  that 
is  more  than  seventy  miles  away.  How  did  you  come 
up  here?" 

It  was  a  dreadful  moment.  Ulick  knew  he  must 
give  some  good  answer  or  he  would  find  himself  in  his 
mother's  keeping  very  soon.  But  what  answer  was 
he  to  give?  it  was  half  accident,  half  cunning  that 

263 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

made  him  speak  of  the  Shannon.  The  steersman  said 
again,  "  The  Shannon  is  seventy  miles  away,  how  did 
you  get  up  here?"  and  by  this  time  Ulick  was  aware 
that  he  must  make  the  bargemen  believe  that  he  had 
hidden  himself  on  one  of  the  boats  coming  up  from  the 
Shannon,  and  that  he  had  given  the  bargemen  some 
money,  and  then  he  burst  into  tears  and  told  them 
he  had  been  very  unhappy  at  home;  and  when  they 
asked  him  why  he  had  been  unhappy,  he  did  not 
answer,  but  he  promised  he  would  not  be  a  naughty 
boy  any  more  if  they  would  take  him  back  to  the  Shan- 
non. He  would  be  a  good  boy  and  not  run  away  again. 
His  pretty  face  and  speech  persuaded  the  bargemen 
to  bring  him  back  to  the  Shannon ;  it  was  decided  to 
say  nothing  about  him  to  the  lock-keeper,  and  he  was 
carried  down  to  the  cabin.  He  had  often  asked  his 
father  if  he  might  see  the  bargemen's  cabin;  and  his 
father  had  promised  him  that  the  next  time  they  went 
to  the  canal  he  should  go  on  board  a  barge  and  see 
the  cabin;  but  his  father  had  gone  away  to  the  wars. 
Now  he  was  in  the  bargemen's  cabin,  and  he  wondered 
if  they  were  going  to  give  him  supper  and  if  he  would 
be  a  bargeman  himself  when  he  grew  up  to  be  a  man. 

Some  miles  further  the  boat  bumped  the  edge  of  the 
bridge,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge  there  was 
the  lock,  and  he  heard  the  lock  gate  shut  behind  the 
boat  and  the  water  pour  into  the  lock ;  the  lock  seemed 
a  long  time  filling,  and  he  was  frightened  lest  the  lock- 
man  might  come  down  to  the  cabin,  for  there  was  no 
place  where  he  could  hide. 

After  passing  through  the  lock  one  of  the  men  came 
down  to  see  him,  and  he  was  taken  on  deck,  and  in 
the  calm  of  the  evening  Ulick  came  to  look  upon  the 

264 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

bargemen  as  his  good  angels.  They  gave  him  some 
of  their  supper,  and  when  they  arrived  at  the  next  lock 
they  made  their  beds  on  the  deck,  the  night  being  so 
warm.  It  seemed  to  Ulick  that  he  had  never  seen 
the  night  before,  and  he  watched  the  sunset  fading 
streak  by  streak,  and  imagined  he  was  the  captain  of 
a  ship  sailing  in  the  Shannon.  The  stars  were  so 
bright  that  he  could  not  sleep,  and  it  amused  him  to 
make  up  a  long  story  about  the  bargemen  snoring  by 
his  side.  The  story  ended  with  the  sunset,  and  then 
the  night  was  blue  all  over,  and  raising  himself  out 
of  his  blanket,  he  watched  the  moonlight  rippling  down 
the  canal.  Then  the  night  grew  grey.  He  began  to 
feel  very  cold,  and  wrapped  himself  in  his  blanket 
tightly,  and  the  world  got  so  white  that  Ulick  grew 
afraid,  and  he  was  not  certain  whether  it  would  not 
be  better  to  escape  from  the  boat  and  run  away  while 
everybody  slept. 

He  lay  awake  maturing  his  little  plan,  seeing  the 
greyness  pass  away  and  the  sky  fill  up  with  pink  and 
fleecy  clouds. 

One  of  the  men  roused,  and,  without  saying  a  word, 
went  to  fetch  a  horse  from  the  stables,  and  another 
went  to  boil  the  kettle  in  the  cabin,  and  Ulick  asked 
if  he  might  help  him;  and  while  he  blew  the  fire  he 
heard  the  water  running  into  the  lock,  and  thought 
what  a  fool  they  were  making  of  the  lock-keeper,  and 
when  the  boat  was  well  on  its  way  towards  the  next 
lock  the  steersman  called  him  to  come  up,  and  they 
breakfasted  together.  Ulick  would  have  wished  this 
life  to  go  on  for  ever,  but  the  following  day  the  steers- 
man said: — 

"  There  is  only  one  lock  more  between  this  and  our 
265 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

last  stopping-place.    Keep  a  look-out  for  your  mother's 
cottage." 

He  promised  he  would,  and  he  beguiled  them  all  the 
evening  with  pretended  discoveries.  That  cabin  was 
his  mother's  cabin.  No,  it  was  further  on,  he  remem- 
bered those  willow-trees.  Ulick's  object  was  to  get  as 
far  away  from  his  home  as  possible;  to  get  as  near 
the  Shannon  as  he  could. 

"  There's  not  a  mile  between  us  and  the  Shannon 
now,"  said  the  steersman.  "  I  believe  you've  been  tell- 
ing us  a  lot  of  lies,  my  young  man." 

Ulick  said  his  mother  lived  just  outside  the  town, 
they  would  see  the  house  when  they  passed  through 
the  last  lock,  and  he  planned  to  escape  that  night,  and 
about  an  hour  before  the  dawn  he  got  up,  and,  glancing 
at  the  sleeping  men,  he  stepped  ashore  and  ran  until 
he  felt  very  tired.  And  when  he  could  go  no  further 
he  lay  down  in  the  hay  in  an  outhouse. 

A  woman  found  him  in  the  hay  some  hours  after, 
and  he  told  her  his  story,  and  as  the  woman  seemed 
very  kind  he  laid  some  stress  on  his  mother's  cruelty. 
He  mentioned  that  his  mother  had  put  a  bee  down  his 
neck,  and  bending  down  his  head  he  showed  her  where 
the  bee  had  stung  him.  She  stroked  his  pretty  curls 
and  looked  into  his  blue  eyes,  and  she  said  that  any- 
one who  could  put  a  bee  down  a  boy's  neck  must  be 
a  she-devil. 

She  was  a  lone  widow  longing  for  someone  to  look 
after,  and  in  a  very  short  time  Ulick  was  as  much  loved 
by  his  chance  mother  as  he  had  been  hated  by  his  real 
mother. 

Three  years  afterwards  she  died,  and  Ulick  had  to 
leave  the  cottage. 

266 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

He  was  now  a  little  over  thirteen,  and  knew  the 
ships  and  their  sailors,  and  he  went  away  in  one  of  the 
ships  that  came  up  the  river,  and  sailed  many  times 
round  the  coast  of  Ireland,  and  up  all  the  harbours 
of  Ireland.  He  led  a  wild  rough  life,  and  his  flight 
from  home  was  remembered  like  a  tale  heard  in  in- 
fancy, until  one  day,  as  he  was  steering  his  ship  up 
the  Shannon,  a  desire  to  see  what  they  were  doing  at 
home  came  over  him.  The  ship  dropped  anchor,  and 
he  went  to  the  canal  to  watch  the  boats  going  home. 
And  it  was  not  long  before  he  was  asking  one  of  the 
bargemen  if  he  would  take  him  on  board.  He  knew 
the  rules,  and  he  knew  they  could  be  broken,  and  how, 
and  he  said  if  they  would  take  him  he  would  be  careful 
the  lockmen  did  not  see  him,  and  the  journey  began. 

The  month  was  July,  so  the  days  were  as  endless 
and  the  country  was  as  green  and  as  full  of  grass, 
as  they  were  when  he  had  come  down  the  canal,  and 
the  horse  strained  along  the  path,  sticking  his  toes 
into  it  just  as  he  had  done  ten  years  ago;  and  when 
they  came  to  a  dangerous  place  Ulick  saw  the  man 
who  was  driving  the  horse  take  hold  of  his  tail,  just 
as  he  had  seen  him  do  ten  years  ago. 

"  I  think  those  are  the  rushes,  only  there  are  no 
trees,  and  the  bank  does  not  seem  so  high."  And  then 
he  said  as  the  bargeman  was  going  to  stop  his  horse, 
"  No,  I  am  wrong.  It  isn't  there." 

They  went  on  a  few  miles  further,  and  the  same 
thing  happened  again.  At  last  he  said,  "  Now  I  am 
sure  it  is  there." 

And  the  bargeman  called  to  the  man  who  was  driving 
the  horse  and  stopped  him,  and  Ulick  jumped  from 
the  boat  to  the  bank. 

267 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

"  That  was  a  big  leap  you  took,"  said  a  small  boy 
who  was  standing  on  the  bank.  "  It  is  well  you  didn't 
fall  in." 

"Why  did  you  say  that?"  said  Ulick,  "is  your 
mother  telling  you  not  to  go  down  to  the  canal  ?" 

"Look  at  the  frog!  he's  going  to  jump  into  the 
water,"  said  the  little  boy. 

He  was  the  same  age  as  Ulick  was  when  Ulick  ran 
away,  and  he  was  dressed  in  the  same  little  trousers 
and  little  boots  and  socks,  and  he  had  a  little  grey  cap. 
Ulick's  hair  had  grown  darker  now,  but  it  had  been  as 
fair  and  as  curly  as  this  little  boy's,  and  he  asked  him 
if  his  mother  forbade  him  to  go  down  to  the  canal. 

"Are  you  a  bargeman?  Do  you  steer  the  barge 
or  do  you  drive  the  horse?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  about  the  barge  if  you'll  tell  me  about 
your  mother.  Does  she  tell  you  not  to  come  down  to 
the  canal?" 

The  boy  turned  away  his  head  and  nodded  it. 

"  Does  she  beat  you  if  she  catches  you  here  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  mother  never  beats  me." 

"  Is  she  kind  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  she's  very  kind,  she  lives  up  there,  and  there's 
a  garden  to  our  cottage,  and  the  name  '  Hill  Cottage' 
is  painted  up  on  the  gate  post." 

"  Now,"  said  Ulick,  "  tell  me  your  name." 

"  My  name  is  Ulick." 

"  Ulick!    And  what's  your  other  name?" 

"  Ulick  Burke." 

"Ulick  Burke!"  said  the  big  Ulick.  "Well,  my 
name  is  the  same.  And  I  used  to  live  at  Hill  Cottage 
too." 

The  boy  did  not  answer. 
268 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

"  Whom  do  you  live  with?" 

"  I  live  with  mother." 

"  And  what's  her  name?" 

"  Well,  Burke  is  her  name,"  said  the  boy. 

"  But  her  front  name  ?" 

"  Catherine." 

"And  where's  your  father?" 

"  Oh,  father's  a  soldier ;  he's  away." 

"  But  my  father  was  a  soldier  too,  and  I  used  to  live 
in  that  cottage." 

"  And  where  have  you  been  ever  since  ?" 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  a  sailor.  I  think  I  will 
go  to  the  cottage  with  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  little  Ulick,  "  come  up  and  see  mother, 
and  you'll  tell  me  where  you've  been  sailing,"  and  he 
put  his  hand  into  the  seafarer's. 

And  now  the  seafarer  began  to  lose  his  reckoning; 
the  compass  no  longer  pointed  north.  He  had  been 
away  for  ten  years,  and  coming  back  he  had  found 
his  own  self,  the  self  that  had  jumped  into  the  water 
at  this  place  ten  years  ago.  Why  had  not  the  little 
boy  done  as  he  had  done,  and  been  pulled  into  the 
barge  and  gone  away?  If  this  had  happened  Ulick 
would  have  believed  he  was  dreaming  or  that  he  was 
mad.  But  the  little  boy  was  leading  him,  yes,  he  re- 
membered the  way,  there  was  the  cottage,  and  its 
paling,  and  its  hollyhocks.  And  there  was  his  mother 
coming  out  of  the  house  and  very  little  changed. 

"  Ulick,  where  have  you  been  ?  Oh,  you  naughty 
boy,"  and  she  caught  the  little  boy  up  and  kissed  him. 
And  so  engrossed  was  her  attention  in  her  little  son 
that  she  had  not  noticed  the  man  he  had  brought 
home  with  him. 

269 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

"  Now  who  is  this  ?"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  mother,  he  jumped  from  the  boat  to  the  bank, 
and  he  will  tell  you,  mother,  that  I  was  not  near  the 
bank." 

"Yes,  mother,  he  was  ten  yards  from  the  bank; 
and  now  tell  me,  do  you  think  you  ever  saw  me  be- 
fore?" .  .  .  She  looked  at  him. 

"  Oh,  it's  you !  Why  we  thought  you  were 
drowned." 

"  I  was  picked  up  by  a  bargeman." 

"  Well,  come  into  the  house  and  tell  us  what  you've 
been  doing." 

"  I've  been  seafaring,"  he  said,  taking  a  chair.  "  But 
what  about  this  Ulick?" 

"  He's  your  brother,  that's  all." 

His  mother  asked  him  of  what  he  was  thinking,  and 
Ulick  told  her  how  greatly  astonished  he  had  been  to 
find  a  little  boy  exactly  like  himself,  waiting  at  the 
same  place. 

"And  father?" 

"  Your  father  is  away." 

"  So,"  he  said,  "  this  little  boy  is  my  brother.  I 
should  like  to  see  father.  When  is  he  coming  back?" 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  he  won't  be  back  for  another  three 
years.  He  enlisted  again." 

"  Mother,"  said  Ulick,  "  you  don't  seem  very  glad 
to  see  me." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  evening  we  spent  when 
you  threw  yourself  into  the  canal.  You  were  a  wicked 
child." 

"  And  why  did  you  think  I  was  drowned  ?" 

"  Well,  your  cap  was  picked  up  in  the  bulrushes." 

He  thought  that  whatever  wickedness  he  had  been 
270 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

guilty  of  might  have  been  forgiven,  and  he  began  to 
feel  that  if  he  had  known  how  his  mother  would  re- 
ceive him  he  would  not  have  come  home. 

"  Well,  the  dinner  is  nearly  ready.  You'll  stay  and 
have  some  with  us,  and  we  can  make  you  up  a  bed  in 
the  kitchen." 

He  could  see  that  his  mother  wished  to  welcome  him, 
but  her  heart  was  feet  against  him  now  as  it  had  always 
been.  Her  dislike  had  survived  ten  years  of  absence. 
He  had  gone  away  and  had  met  with  a  mother  who 
loved  him,  and  had  done  ten  years'  hard  seafaring. 
He  had  forgotten  his  real  mother — forgotten  every- 
thing except  the  bee  and  the  hatred  that  gathered  in 
her  eyes  when  she  put  it  down  his  back;  and  that 
same  ugly  look  he  could  now  see  gathering  in  her  eyes, 
and  it  grew  deeper  every  hour  he  remained  in  the 
cottage.  His  little  brother  asked  him  to  tell  him  tales 
about  the  sailing  ships,  and  he  wanted  to  go  down 
to  the  canal  with  Ulick,  but  their  mother  said  he  was 
to  bide  here  with  her.  The  day  had  begun  to  decline, 
his  brother  was  crying,  and  he  had  to  tell  him  a  sea- 
story  to  stop  his  crying.  "  But  mother  hates  to  hear 
my  voice,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  he  went  out  into 
the  garden  when  the  story  was  done.  It  would  be 
better  to  go  away,  and  he  took  one  turn  round  the 
garden  and  got  over  the  paling  at  the  end  of  the  dry 
ditch,  at  the  place  he  had  got  over  it  before,  and  he 
walked  through  the  old  wood,  where  the  trees  were 
overgrown  with  ivy,  and  the  stones  with  moss.  In 
this  second  experience  there  was  neither  terror  nor 
mystery — only  bitterness.  It  seemed  to  him  a  pity 
that  he  had  ever  been  taken  out  of  the  canal,  and  he 
thought  how  easy  it  would  be  to  throw  himself  in 

271 


SO  ON   HE   FARES 

again,  but  only  children  drown  themselves  because 
their  mothers  do  not  love  them ;  life  had  taken  a  hold 
upon  him,  and  he  stood  watching  the  canal,  though 
not  waiting  for  a  boat.  But  when  a  boat  appeared 
he  called  to  the  man  who  was  driving  the  horse  to  stop, 
for  it  was  the  same  boat  that  had  brought  him  from 
the  Shannon. 

"  Well,  was  it  all  right?"  the  steersman  said.  "  Did 
you  find  the  house  ?  How  were  they  at  home  ?" 

"  They're  all  right  at  home,"  he  said ;  "  but  father 
is  still  away.  I  am  going  back.  Can  you  take  me  ?" 

The  evening  sky  opened  calm  and  benedictive,  and 
the  green  country  flowed  on,  the  boat  passed  by  ruins, 
castles  and  churches,  and  every  day  was  alike  until 
they  reached  the  Shannon. 


272 


THE   WILD   GOOSE 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

HE  remembered  a  green  undulating  country  out  of 
which  the  trees  seemed  to  emerge  like  vapours,  and 
a  line  of  pearl-coloured  mountains  showing  above  the 
horizon  on  fine  days.  And  this  was  all.  But  this 
slight  colour-memory  had  followed  him  all  through 
his  wanderings.  His  parents  had  emigrated  to  Man- 
chester when  he  was  nine,  and  when  he  was  sixteen 
he  felt  that  he  must  escape  from  Manchester,  from 
the  overwhelming  dreariness  of  the  brick  chimneys 
and  their  smoke  cloud.  He  had  joined  a  travelling 
circus  on  its  way  to  the  Continent,  and  he  crossed 
with  it  from  New  Haven  to  Dieppe  in  charge  of  the 
lions.  The  circus  crossed  in  a  great  storm;  Ned  was 
not  able  to  get  about,  and  the  tossing  of  the  vessel 
closed  the  ventilating  slides,  and  when  they  arrived 
at  Dieppe  the  finest  lion  was  dead. 

"  Well,  there  are  other  things  to  do  in  life  besides 
feeding  lions,"  he  said;  and  taking  up  his  fiddle  he 
became  interested  in  it.  He  played  it  all  the  way 
across  the  Atlantic,  and  everyone  said  there  was  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  play  in  the  opera  house. 
But  an  interview  with  the  music  conductor  dispelled 
illusions.  Ned  learnt  from  him  that  improvisations 
were  not  admissible  in  an  opera  house ;  and  when  the 
conductor  told  him  what  would  be  required  of  him 
he  began  to  lose  interest  in  his  musical  career.  As 
he  stood  jingling  his  pence  on  the  steps  of  the  opera 
house  a  man  went  by  who  had  crossed  with  Ned,  and 
the  two  getting  into  conversation,  Ned  was  asked  if 

275 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

he  could  draw  a  map  according  to  scale.  It  would 
profit  him  nothing  to  say  no;  he  remembered  he 
had  drawn  maps  in  the  school  in  Manchester.  A 
bargain  was  struck !  he  was  to  get  ten  pounds  for  his 
map !  He  ordered  a  table ;  he  pinned  out  the  paper, 
and  the  map  was  finished  in  a  fortnight.  It  was  of 
a  mining  district,  and  having  nothing  to  do  when  it 
was  finished  he  thought  he  would  like  to  see  the 
mine ;  the  owners  encouraged  him  to  go  there,  and  he 
did  some  mining  in  the  morning — in  the  evenings 
he  played  his  fiddle.  Eventually  he  became  a  jour- 
nalist. 

He  wandered  and  wrote,  and  wandered  again,  until 
one  day,  finding  himself  in  New  York,  he  signed  an 
agreement  and  edited  a  newspaper.  But  he  soon 
wearied  of  expressing  the  same  opinions,  and  as  the 
newspaper  could  not  change  its  opinions  Ned  volun- 
teered to  go  to  Cuba  and  write  about  the  insurgents. 
And  he  wrote  articles  that  inflamed  the  Americans 
against  the  Spaniards,  and  went  over  to  the  American 
lines  to  fight  when  the  Americans  declared  war  against 
Spain,  and  fought  so  well  that  he  might  have  become 
a  general  if  the  war  had  lasted.  But  it  was  over, 
and,  overpowered  by  an  extraordinary  dislike  to  New 
York,  he  felt  he  must  travel.  He  wanted  to  see  Europe 
again,  and  remembering  the  green  plain  of  Meath,  he 
said:  "I'll  go  to  Ireland." 

His  father  and  mother  were  dead,  and  without  a 
thought  of  his  relations,  he  read  the  legends  of  Meath 
on  his  way  out;  he  often  sat  considering  his  adven- 
tures, the  circus,  the  mining  camp,  and  his  sympathy 
with  the  Cubans  in  their  revolt  against  Spain ;  these 
convinced  him  of  his  Gaelic  inheritance  and  that  some- 

276 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

thing  might  be  done  with  Ireland.  England's  power 
was  great,  but  Spain's  power  had  been  great  too,  and 
when  Spain  thought  herself  most  powerful  the  worm 
had  begun.  Everything  has  its  day,  and  as  England 
decayed,  Ireland  would  revive.  A  good  time  might 
be  on  its  way  to  Ireland ;  if  so  he  would  like  to  be  there 
or  thereabouts ;  for  he  always  liked  to  be  in  the  van  of 
a  good  time. 

He  went  straight  to  Tara,  his  mind  bending  rather 
to  pagan  than  to  Christian  Ireland.  Traces  of  Cor- 
mac's  banqueting  hall  were  pointed  out  to  him,  and 
he  imagined  what  this  great  hall,  built  entirely  of 
wood  and  hung  about  with  skins,  must  have  been. 
He  was  shown  the  Rath  of  Kings  and  the  Rath  of 
Crania.  Her  name  brought  to  his  mind  her  flight 
with  Diarmuid  and  how  when  they  had  had  to  cross 
a  stream  and  her  legs  were  wetted,  she  had  said  to 
Diarmuid,  who  would  not  break  his  oath  to  Finn, 
"  Diarmuid,  you  are  a  great  warrior,  but  this  water 
is  braver  than  you !"  "  Perhaps  this  very  stream !"  he 
said,  looking  towards  a  stream  that  flowed  from  the 
well  of  Neamhtach  or  Pearly.  But  he  was  told  it  was 
this  stream  that  had  turned  the  first  water  mill  in  Ire- 
land and  that  Cormac  had  put  up  the  mill  to  save  a 
beautiful  bond-maid  from  toiling  at  the  quern. 

The  morning  was  spent  in  seeking  the  old  sites, 
and  in  the  afternoon  he  went  to  the  inn  and  found  a 
good  number  of  villagers  in  the  tap-room.  He  learned 
from  them  that  there  were  cromlechs  and  Druid  altars 
within  walking  distance  of  Tara,  and  decided  on  a 
walking  tour.  He  wandered  through  the  beautiful 
country,  interested  in  Ireland's  slattern  life,  touched 
by  the  kindness  and  simplicity  of  the  people.  "  Poor 

277 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

people,"  he  thought,  "  how  touching  it  is  to  find  them 
learning  their  own  language,"  and  he  began  to  think 
out  a  series  of  articles  about  Ireland. 

"  They  talk  of  Cuchulain,"  he  said,  "  but  they  pre- 
fer an  Archbishop,  and  at  every  turn  in  their  lives 
they  are  paying  the  priest.  The  title  of  my  book  shall 
be  '  A  Western  Thibet,'  an  excellent  title  for  my  book !" 
and  leaning  on  a  gate  and  looking  across  a  hay-field, 
he  saw  the  ends  of  chapters. 

Now  that  he  had  a  book  to  write,  his  return  to 
America  was  postponed;  a  postponement  was  to  Ned 
an  indefinite  period,  and  he  was  glad  he  was  not  re- 
turning to  America  till  the  spring,  for  he  had  found 
pleasant  rooms  in  a  farm-house.  He  would  make  them 
his  head-quarters;  for  it  was  only  by  living  in  a 
farm-house  he  could  learn  the  life  of  the  people  and 
its  real  mind.  And  he  would  have  written  his  book 
just  as  he  had  planned  it  if  he  had  not  met  Ellen 
Cronin. 

She  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  rich  farmer  in  the 
neighbourhood.  He  had  heard  so  much  about  her 
learning  and  her  pretty  face  that  he  was  disposed  to 
dispute  her  good  looks;  but  in  spite  of  his  landlady's 
praise  he  had  liked  her  pretty  oval  face.  "  Her  face 
is  pretty  when  you  look  at  it,"  he  said  to  his  land- 
lady. But  this  admission  did  not  satisfy  her.  "  Well, 
enthusiasm  is  pleasant,"  he  thought,  and  he  listened  to 
her  rambling  talk. 

"  She  used  to  like  to  come  to  tea  here,  and  after  her 
tea  she  and  my  son  James,  who  was  the  same  age, 
used  to  make  paper  boats  under  the  alder-trees." 

And  the  picture  of  Ellen  making  boats  under  alder- 
trees  pleased  Ned's  fancy,  and  he  encouraged  the  land- 
'  278 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

j 
lady  to  tell  him  more  about  her.     She  told  him  that 

Ellen  had  not  taken  to  study  till  she  was  twelve  and 
that  it  was  the  priest  who  had  set  her  reading  books 
and  had  taught  her  Latin. 

Ned  lay  back  in  his  chair  smiling,  listening  to  the 
landlady  telling  him  about  Ellen.  She  had  chosen  her 
own  school.  She  had  inquired  into  the  matter,  and 
had  taken  her  father  into  her  confidence  one  day  by 
telling  him  of  the  advantages  of  this  school.  But  this 
part  of  the  story  did  not  please  Ned,  and  he  said  he 
did  not  like  her  a  bit  better  for  having  chosen  her  own 
school.  Nor  did  he  like  her  better  because  her  mis- 
tress had  written  to  her  father  to  say  she  had  learned 
all  that  she  could  learn  in  Ireland.  He  liked  her  for 
her  love  of  Ireland  and  her  opposition  to  her  father's 
ideas.  Old  Cronin  thought  Ireland  a  miserable  coun- 
try and  England  the  finest  in  the  world,  whereas  Ellen 
thought  only  of  Irish  things,  and  she  had  preferred 
the  Dublin  University  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  He 
was  told  that  her  university  career  had  been  no  less 
brilliant  than  her  school  career,  and  he  raised  his  eye- 
brows when  the  landlady  said  that  Miss  Ellen  used  to 
have  her  professors  staying  at  Mount  Laurel,  and  that 
they  used  to  talk  Latin  in  the  garden. 

But  she  was  long  ago  done  with  the  professors,  and 
Ned  asked  the  landlady  to  tell  him  what  change  had 
come  over  the  mind  of  this  somewhat  pedantic  young 
woman.  And  he  was  told  that  Ellen  had  abandoned 
her  studies  and  professors  for  politics  and  politicians, 
and  that  these  were  a  great  trial  to  her  father,  into 
whose  house  no  Nationalist  member  of  Parliament  had 
ever  put  his  foot  before.  "  Now  the  very  men  that 
Mr.  Cronin  used  to  speak  of  as  men  who  were  throw- 

279 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

ing  stones  at  the  police  three  years  ago  are  dining  with 
him  to-day."  And  worse  than  her  political  opinions, 
according  to  Mr.  Cronin,  was  her  resolution  to  speak 
the  language  of  her  own  country.  "  When  he  had 
heard  her  talking  it  to  a  boy  she  had  up  from  the  coun- 
try to  teach  her,  Mr.  Cronin  stuck  both  his  hands  into 
his  stubbly  hair  and  rushed  out  of  the  house  like  a  wild 
man." 

It  was  pleasant  to  listen  to  the  landlady's  babble 
about  the  Cronins,  for  he  was  going  to  spend  the  even- 
ing with  them;  he  had  been  introduced  to  her  father, 
a  tall,  thin,  taciturn  man,  who  had  somewhat  gruffly, 
but  not  unkindly,  asked  him  to  come  to  spend  the  even- 
ing with  them,  saying  that  some  friends  were  coming 
in,  and  there  would  be  some  music. 

Ned's  life  had  been  lived  in  newspaper  offices,  in 
theatres,  circuses,  and  camps.  He  knew  very  little  of 
society — nothing  at  all  of  European  society — and  was 
curious  to  see  what  an  Irish  country-house  was  like. 
The  Cronins  lived  in  a  dim,  red  brick,  eighteenth- 
century  house.  It  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  large  park, 
and  the  park  was  surrounded  by  old  grey  walls  and 
Ned  liked  to  lean  on  these  walls,  for  in  places  they 
had  crumbled,  and  admire  the  bracken  in  the  hollows 
and  the  wind-blown  hawthorn-trees  growing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  long,  winding  drive.  He  had  long 
wished  to  walk  in  the  park  and  now  he  was  there. 
The  hawthorns  were  in  bloom  and  the  cuckoo  was 
calling.  The  sky  was  dark  overhead,  but  there  was 
light  above  the  trees,  and  long  herds  of  cattle  wan- 
dered and  life  seemed  to  Ned  extraordinarily  lovely 
and  desirable  at  that  moment.  "  I  wonder  what  her 
dreams  are?  Winter  and  summer  she  looks  at  these 

280 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

mysterious    hollows    and    these    abundant    hawthorn 
groves." 

The  young  lady  had  been  pointed  out  to  him  as  she 
went  by,  and  he  was  impatient  to  be  introduced  to 
Ellen,  but  she  was  talking  to  some  friends  near  the 
window,  and  she  did  not  see  him.  He  liked  her  white 
dress,  there  were  pearls  round  her  neck,  and  her  red 
hair  was  pinned  up  with  a  tortoise-shell  comb.  She  and 
her  friends  were  looking  over  a  photograph  album, 
and  Ned  was  left  with  Mr.  Cronin  to  talk  to  him  as 
best  he  could ;  for  it  was  difficult  to  talk  to  this  hard, 
grizzled  man,  knowing  nothing  about  the  war  in  Cuba 
nor  evincing  any  interest  in  America.  When  Ned 
asked  him  about  Ireland  he  answered  in  short  sen- 
tences, which  brought  the  conversation  to  abrupt 
closes.  America  having  failed  to  draw  him  out,  and 
Ireland,  Ned  began  to  talk  of  his  landlady.  But  it 
was  not  until  he  related  the  conversation  he  had  had 
with  her  that  evening  about  Miss  Cronin  that  the  old 
farmer  began  to  talk  a  little.  Ned  could  see  he  was 
proud  of  his  daughter;  he  regretted  that  she  had  not 
gone  to  Oxford,  and  said  she  would  have  carried  all 
before  her  if  she  had  gone  there.  Ned  could  see  that 
what  his  landlady  had  told  him  was  true — that  old 
Cronin  thought  very  little  of  Ireland.  He  hoped  to  get 
three  minutes'  conversation,  at  least,  out  of  Girton,  but 
the  old  farmer  seemed  to  have  said  everything  he  had 
to  say  on  the  subject.  The  conversation  failed  again, 
and  Ned  was  forced  to  speak  to  him  of  the  interest 
that  Miss  Cronin  took  in  the  Irish  language  and  her 
desire  to  speak  it.  At  the  mention  of  the  Irish  lan- 
guage, the  old  man  grew  gruffer,  and  remembering 
that  the  landlady  had  said  that  Miss  Cronin  was  very 

281 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

religious,  Ned  spoke  of  the  priests — there  were  two 
in  the  room — and  he  asked  Mr.  Cronin  which  of  them 
had  encouraged  Miss  Cronin  to  learn  Irish.  He  had 
never  heard  the  language  spoken,  and  would  like  to 
hear  it. 

"  I  believe,  Mr.  Cronin,  it  was  Father  Egan  who 
taught  your  daughter  Latin  ?" 

"  It  was  so,"  said  Mr.  Cronin ;  "  but  he  might  have 
left  the  Irish  alone,  and  politics,  too.  We  keep  them 
as  fat  as  little  bonhams,  and  they  ought  to  be  satisfied 
with  that." 

Ned  did  not  know  what  were  little  bonhams,  and 
pretended  a  great  interest  when  he  was  told  that  bon- 
ham  was  the  Irish  for  sucking  pig,  and  glancing  at 
the  priests  he  noticed  that  they  were  fat  indeed,  and  he 
said,  "  There  is  nothing  like  faith  for  fattening.  It  is 
better  than  any  oil-cake." 

Mr.  Cronin  gave  a  grunt  and  Ned  thought  he  was 
going  to  laugh  at  this  sally,  but  he  suddenly  moved 
away,  and  Ned  wondered  what  had  happened.  It  was 
Ellen  who  had  crossed  the  room  to  speak  to  her  father, 
and  Ned  could  see  that  she  had  heard  his  remark,  and 
he  could  see  that  the  remark  had  angered  her,  that 
she  thought  it  in  bad  taste.  He  prepared  quickly  a 
winning  speech  which  would  turn  the  edge  of  her 
indignation,  but  before  he  had  time  to  speak  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face  changed  and  a  look  of  pleasure 
passed  into  it;  he  could  see  that  the  girl  liked  him, 
and  he  hastened  to  tell  her  that  his  landlady  had 
told  him  about  the  paper  boats  and  the  alder-trees. 
And  Ellen  began  to  speak  about  the  landlady,  saying 
she  was  a  very  good,  kind  woman,  and  she  wanted 
to  know  if  Ned  were  comfortable  at  the  farm-house. 

282 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

But  she  seemed  to  have  some  difficulty  in  speaking,  and 
then,  as  if  moved  by  some  mysterious  influence,  they 
walked  across  the  room  towards  the  window  and  sat 
under  the  shadow  of  the  red  damask  curtains.  A 
gentle  breeze  was  blowing  and  the  curtains  filled  with 
it  and  sank  back  with  a  mysterious  rustle.  And  be- 
yond them  the  garden  lay  dark  and  huddled  in  the 
shadows  of  great  trees.  He  heard  her  say  she  was 
sorry  that  James,  the  landlady's  son,  had  gone  to 
America,  and  then  they  spoke  of  the  forty  thousand 
that  were  leaving  Ireland  every  year.  It  was  Ned  who 
continued  the  conversation,  but  he  could  see  that  what 
he  said  hardly  entered  her  ears  at  all.  Yet  she  heard 
his  voice  in  her  heart,  and  he,  too,  heard  her  voice  in 
his  heart,  and  several  times  she  felt  she  could  not  go 
on  talking,  and  once  she  nearly  lost  consciousness  and 
must  have  swayed  a  little,  for  he  put  out  his  hand  to 
save  her. 

They  went  into  the  garden  and  walked  about  in  the 
dusk.  He  told  her  about  the  war  in  Cuba  and  about 
the  impulse  which  had  brought  him  back  to  Ireland, 
and  his  tale  seemed  to  her  the  most  momentous  thing 
she  had  ever  heard.  She  listened  to  his  first  impres- 
sions about  Tara,  and  every  moment  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  was  about  to  hear  a  great  secret,  a  secret  that 
had  been  troubling  her  a  long  while;  every  moment 
she  expected  to  hear  him  speak  it,  and  she  almost  cried 
when  her  father  came  to  ask  Ned  if  he  would  play  for 
them. 

Ellen  was  not  a  musician,  and  another  woman  would 
have  to  accompany  him.  He  was  tall  and  thin  and 
his  hands  were  manly.  She  could  hardly  look  at  his 
hands  without  shuddering,  so  beautiful  were  they  when 

283 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

they  played  the  violin;  and  that  night  music  said 
something  more  to  her  than  it  had  ever  said  before. 
She  heard  again  the  sounds  of  birds  and  insects,  and 
she  saw  again  the  gloom  of  the  trees,  and  she  felt 
again  and  more  intensely  the  overpowering  ecstasy,  and 
she  yielded  herself  utterly  and  without  knowing  why. 
When  he  finished  playing  he  came  to  her  and  sat  by 
her,  and  everything  she  said  seemed  to  fall  from  her  lips 
involuntarily.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  herself  utterly, 
she  seemed  to  have  become  a  fluid,  she  yielded  herself 
like  a  fluid ;  it  was  like  dying :  for  she  seemed  to  pass 
out  of  herself  to  become  absorbed  in  the  night.  How 
the  time  past  she  knew  not,  and  when  her  guests  came 
to  bid  her  good-bye  she  hardly  saw  them,  and  listened 
to  their  leave-taking  with  a  little  odd  smile  on  her 
lips,  and  when  everyone  was  gone  she  bade  her  father 
good-night  absent-mindedly,  fearing,  however,  that  he 
would  speak  to  her  about  Ned.  But  he  only  said  good- 
night, and  she  went  up  the  wide  staircase  conscious 
that  the  summer  night  was  within  the  house  and  with- 
out it ;  that  it  lay  upon  the  world,  a  burden  sweet  and 
still,  like  happiness  upon  the  heart. 

She  opened  her  window,  and  sat  there  hoping  that 
something  would  come  out  of  the  night  and  whisper 
in  her  ear  the  secret  that  tormented  her.  The  stars 
knew !  If  she  could  only  read  them !  She  felt  she 
was  feeling  a  little  more  than  she  was  capable  of  under- 
standing. The  ecstasy  grew  deeper,  and  she  waited 
for  the  revelation.  But  none  came,  and  feeling  a  little 
ashamed  she  got  up  to  close  the  window,  and  it  was 
then  that  the  revelation  broke  in  her  mind.  She  had 
met  the  man  who  was  to  lead  the  Irish  people!  They 
wanted  a  new  leader,  a  leader  with  a  new  idea;  the 

284 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

new  leader  must  come  from  the  outside,  and  he  had 
come  to  them  from  America,  and  her  emotion  was  so 
great  that  she  would  have  liked  to  have  awakened  her 
father.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  gone  into  the 
country  waking  the  people  up  in  the  cottages,  telling 
them  that  the  leader  had  come.  She  stood  entranced, 
remembering  all  he  had  said  to  her.  He  had  told  her 
he  had  been  moved  to  return  to  Ireland  after  the  war 
in  Cuba,  and  she  had  not  understood.  The  word  mar- 
ried passed  through  her  mind  before  she  could  stay 
it.  But  she  was  necessary  to  this  man,  of  this  she 
was  sure;  the  Voice  had  told  her.  She  was  feeling 
more  than  she  could  understand,  and  she  lay  down  in 
her  bed  certain  that  she  had  accomplished  the  first 
stage  of  her  journey. 

And  just  then  Ned  was  leaning  on  the  garden  gate. 
The  summer  night  was  sweet  and  still,  and  he  wanted 
to  think  of  this  girl  who  had  come  so  suddenly  into 
his  life.  The  idea  of  marriage  flitted  across  his  mind 
as  it  had  flitted  across  hers,  and  he  tried  to  remember 
the  exact  moment  in  Cuba  when  the  wish  to  see  Ire- 
land had  come  into  his  mind.  To  believe  in  fate  and 
predestination  is  an  easy  way  out  of  life's  labyrinth, 
and  if  one  does  not  believe  in  something  of  the  kind 
the  figures  will  not  come  right.  How  did  he  know 
that  he  had  not  met  this  girl  for  some  unknown  pur- 
pose. He  could  see  a  great  white  star  through  a  vista 
in  the  trees,  and  he  said :  "  I  believe  that  that  star 
knows.  Why  will  it  not  tell  me?" 

And  then  he  walked  into  the  woods,  and  out  under 
the  moon,  between  the  little  grey  fields.  Some  sheep 
had  come  out  on  the  road  and  were  lying  upon  it. 
"  I  suppose  it's  all  very  natural,"  he  said.  "  The  circus 

285 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

aspiring  to  the  academy  and  the  academy  spying  to  the 
circus.  Now,  what  am  I  going  to  do  to-morrow?  I 
suppose  I  must  go  to  see  her." 

He  had  visited  all  the  ruins  and  pondered  by  all  the 
cromlechs,  and  was  a  little  weary  of  historic  remains ; 
the  girl  was  too  much  in  his  mind  to  permit  of  his 
doing  much  writing.  He  might  go  to  Dublin,  where 
he  had  business,  and  in  the  morning  he  looked  out 
the  trains,  but  none  seemed  to  suit  his  convenience, 
and  at  five  o'clock  he  was  at  Laurel  Hill  listening  to 
Ellen.  She  was  anxious  to  talk  to  him  about  the  politi- 
cal opportunity  he  could  seize  if  he  were  so  minded. 

"  Men  have  always  believed  in  fate,"  Ned  said,  and, 
interrupting  him  suddenly  she  asked  him  if  he  would 
come  to  see  a  pretty  house  in  the  neighbourhood — a 
house  that  would  suit  him  perfectly,  for  he  must  have 
a  house  if  he  intended  to  go  in  for  politics. 

They  came  back  in  the  dusk,  talking  of  painting 
and  papering  and  the  laying  out  of  the  garden.  Ellen 
was  anxious  that  the  garden  should  be  nice,  and  he 
had  been  much  interested  in  the  old  family  furniture 
at  Laurel  Hill,  not  with  the  spindle-legged  Sheraton 
sideboard,  but  with  the  big  Victorian  furniture  which 
the  Cronins  thought  ugly.  He  liked  especially  the 
black  mahogany  sideboard  in  the  dining-room,  and 
he  was  enthusiastic  about  the  four-post  bed  that  Mr. 
Cronin  had  slept  in  for  thirty  years  without  ever 
thinking  it  was  a  beautiful  thing.  This  massive  furni- 
ture represented  a  life  that  Ned  perceived  for  the  first 
time,  a  sedate  monotonous  life ;  and  he  could  see  these 
people  accomplishing  the  same  tasks  from  daylight 
to  dark;  he  admired  the  well-defined  circle  of  their 
interests  and  the  calm  security  with  which  they  spoke 

286 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

of  the  same  things  every  evening,  deepening  the  tra- 
dition of  their  country  and  of  their  own  characters ; 
and  he  conceived  a  sudden  passion  for  tradition,  and 
felt  he  would  like  to  settle  down  in  these  grass  lands 
in  an  eighteenth-century  house,  living  always  amid 
heavy  mahogany  furniture,  sleeping  every  night  in  a 
mahogany  four-post  bed :  and  he  could  not  help  think- 
ing that  if  he  did  not  get  the  mahogany  four-post 
bed  with  the  carved  top,  perhaps  he  would  not  care  to 
marry  Ellen  at  all. 

The  next  time  he  saw  her  their  talk  turned  upon 
the  house  she  had  found  for  him,  and  she  said  if  he 
did  not  take  it  he  would  certainly  go  back  to  America 
in  the  spring.  She  forgot  herself  a  little;  her  father 
had  to  check  her,  and  Ned  returned  home  sure  in 
his  mind  that  she  would  marry  him — if  he  asked  her. 
And  the  next  day  he  chose  a  pair  of  trousers  that  he 
thought  becoming — they  were  cut  wide  in  the  leg  and 
narrow  over  the  instep.  He  looked  out  for  a  cravat 
that  she  had  not  seen  him  wear,  and  he  chose  the 
largest,  and  he  put  on  his  braided  coat.  He  could  not 
see  that  his  moustache  was  not  in  keeping  with  his 
clothes :  he  had  often  intended  to  shave  it,  but  to-day 
was  not  the  day  for  shaving.  She  had  liked  his  mous- 
tache, and  he  thought  it  would  be  a  pity  she  should  not 
enjoy  it,  however  reprehensible  her  taste  for  it  might 
be.  And  he  pondered  his  side-whiskers,  remembering 
they  were  in  keeping  with  his  costume  (larger  whiskers 
would  be  still  more  in  keeping),  and  amused  by  his 
own  fantastic  notions,  he  thought  he  was  beginning 
to  look  like  the  gentleman  of  seventy  or  eighty  years 
ago  that  he  had  seen  in  varnished  maplewood  frames 
in  the  drawing-room  at  the  Cronins'.  His  trousers 

287 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

were  of  a  later  period,  but  they  were,  nevertheless, 
contemporaneous  with  the  period  of  the  mahogany 
sideboard,  and  that  was  what  he  liked  best. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  remembering  that  he  had  never 
wished  to  be  married,  because  he  never  thought  that 
he  could  love  the  same  woman  always,  and  now  he 
asked  himself  if  Ellen  were  an  exception,  and  if  he 
had  been  led  back  to  Ireland  to  marry  her.  He  had 
grown  tired  of  women  before,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  never  could  grow  tired  of  her.  That  remained  to 
be  seen ;  the  one  certain  thing  was  that  he  was  going 
to  propose  to  her. 

He  was  told  she  was  in  the  garden,  and  he  was 
glad  to  dispense  with  the  servant's  assistance;  he 
would  find  his  way  there  himself,  and,  after  some 
searching,  he  found  the  wicket.  The  thing  itself  and 
its  name  pleased  him.  When  he  had  a  garden  he 
would  have  a  wicket.  He  had  already  begun  to  asso- 
ciate Ellen  with  her  garden.  She  was  never  so  much 
herself  as  when  attending  her  flowers,  and  to  please 
her  he  had  affected  an  interest  in  them,  but  when  he 
had  said  that  the  flowers  were  beautiful  his  eyes  went 
to  the  garden  walls  and  Ellen  had  seen  that  they  had 
interested  him  more  than  the  flowers.  He  had  said 
that  the  buttresses  were  of  no  use;  they  had  been  built 
because  in  those  days  people  took  a  pleasure  in  making 
life  seem  permanent.  The  buttresses  had  enabled  him 
to  admire  the  roses  planted  between  them,  and  he 
had  grown  enthusiastic;  but  she  had  laughed  at  his 
enthusiasm,  seeing  quite  clearly  that  he  admired  the 
flowers  because  they  enhanced  the  beauty  of  the  walls. 

At  the  end  of  the  garden  there  was  a  view  of  the 
Dublin  mountains,  and  the  long  walk  that  divided  the 

288 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

garden  had  been  designed  in  order  to  draw  attention 
to  them.  The  contrast  between  the  wild  mountain 
and  the  homely  primness  of  the  garden  appealed  to 
his  sense  of  the  picturesque ;  and  even  now  though 
the  fate  of  his  life  was  to  be  decided  in  a  few  minutes 
he  could  not  but  stay  to  admire  the  mysterious  crests 
and  hollows.  In  this  faint  day  the  mountains  seemed 
more  like  living  things,  more  mysterious  and  moving, 
than  he  had  even  seen  them  before,  and  he  would 
have  stood  looking  at  them  for  a  long  while  if  he  had 
not  had  to  find  Ellen.  She  was  at  the  furthest  end  of 
the  garden,  where  he  had  never  been,  beyond  the 
rosary,  beyond  the  grass-plot,  and  she  was  walking 
up  and  down.  She  seemed  to  have  a  fishing-net  in 
her  hand.  But  how  could  she  be  fishing  in  her  gar- 
den? Ned  did  not  know  that  there  was  a  stream  at 
the  end  of  it;  for  the  place  had  once  belonged  to 
monks,  and  they  knew  how  to  look  after  their  bodily 
welfare  and  had  turned  the  place  into  a  trout  preserve. 
But  when  Mr.  Cronin  had  bought  the  property  the 
'garden  was  waste  and  the  stream  overgrown  with 
willow-weed  and  meadow-sweet  and  every  kind  of 
brier.  And  it  was  Ellen  who  had  discovered  that  the 
bottom  of  the  stream  was  flagged  and  she  had  five 
feet  of  mud  taken  out  of  it,  and  now  the  stream  was 
as  bright  and  clear  as  in  the  time  of  the  monks,  and 
as  full  of  trout.  She  had  just  caught  two  which  lay  on 
the  grass  panting,  their  speckled  bellies  heaving  pain- 
fully. 

"  There  is  a  great  big  trout  here,"  Ellen  said,  "  he 
must  be  a  pound  weight,  and  we  tried  to  catch  him  all 
last  season,  but  he  is  very  cunning,  he  dives  and  gets 
under  the  net." 

19  289 


"  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to  catch  him,"  said  Ned, 
"  if  he  is  in  the  stream  and  if  I  could  get  another  net." 

"  The  gardener  will  give  you  one." 

And  presently  Ned  came  back  with  a  net,  and  they 
beat  up  the  stream  from  different  ends,  Ellen  taking 
the  side  next  the  wall.  There  was  a  path  there  nearly 
free  from  briers,  and  she  held  her  light  summer  dress 
round  her  tightly.  Ned  thought  he  had  never  seen 
anyone  so  prettily  dressed.  She  wore  a  striped  muslin 
variegated  with  pink  flowers;  there  were  black  bows 
in  her  hat  and  black  ribbon  was  run  down  the  bottom 
of  her  dress;  she  looked  very  pretty  against  the  old 
wall  touched  here  and  there  with  ivy.  And  the  grace 
of  her  movement  enchanted  Ned  when  she  leaned  for- 
ward and  prevented  the  trout  from  escaping  up  the 
stream.  But  Ned's  side  of  the  stream  was  overgrown 
with  briers  and  he  could  not  make  his  way  through 
them.  Once  he  very  nearly  slipped  into  the  stream, 
and  only  saved  himself  by  catching  some  prickly  briers, 
and  Ellen  had  to  come  over  to  take  the  thorns  out  of 
his  hand.  Then  they  resumed  their  fishing,  hunting 
the  trout  up  and  down  the  stream.  But  the  trout  had 
been  hunted  so  often  that  he  knew  how  to  escape 
the  nets,  and  dived  at  the  right  moment.  At  last 
wearied  out  he  let  Ned  drive  him  against  the  bank. 
Ellen  feared  he  would  jump  out  of  the  net  at  the  last 
moment,  but  he  was  tired  and  they  landed  him  safely. 

And  proud  of  having  caught  him  they  sat  down 
beside  him  on  the  grass  and  Ellen  said  that  the  gar- 
dener and  the  gardener's  boy  had  tried  to  catch  him 
many  times ;  that  whenever  they  had  company  to  din- 
ner her  father  said  it  was  a  pity  they  had  not  the  big 
trout  on  the  table. 

290 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

The  fishing  had  been  great  fun,  principally  on  ac- 
count of  Ellen's  figure,  which  Ned  admired  greatly, 
and  now  he  admired  her  profile,  its  gravity  appealed 
to  him,  and  her  attitude  full  of  meditation.  He 
watched  her  touching  the  gasping  trout  with  the  point 
of  her  parasol.  She  had  drawn  one  leg  under  her. 
Her  eyes  were  small  and  grey  and  gem-like,  and  there 
was  a  sweet  look  of  interrogation  in  them  now  and 
then. 

"  I  like  it,  this  lustreless  day,"  said  Ned,  "  and 
those  swallows  pursuing  their  food  up  and  down  the 
lustreless  sky.  It  all  seems  like  a  fairy-tale,  this  catch- 
ing of  the  fish,  you  and  I.  The  day  so  dim,"  he  said, 
"  so  quiet  and  low,  and  the  garden  is  hushed.  These 
things  would  be  nothing  to  me  were  it  not  for  you," 
and  he  put  his  hand  upon  her  knee. 

She  withdrew  her  knee  quickly  and  a  moment  after 
got  up,  and  Ned  got  up  and  followed  her  across  the 
grass-plot,  and  through  the  rosary;  not  a  word  was 
said  and  she  began  to  wonder  he  did  not  plead  to  be 
forgiven.  She  felt  she  should  send  him  away,  but  she 
could  not  find  words  to  tell  him  to  go.  His  conduct 
was  so  unprecedented;  no  one  had  ever  taken  such  a 
liberty  before.  It  was  shameful  that  she  was  not  more 
angry,  for  she  knew  she  was  only  trying  to  feel  angry. 

"  But,"  he  said,  suddenly,  as  if  he  divined  her 
thoughts,  "  we've  forgotten  the  fish ;  won't  you  come 
back  and  help  me  to  carry  them  ?  I  cannot  carry  three 
trout  by  myself." 

She  was  about  to  answer  severely,  but  as  she  stood 
looking  at  him  her  thoughts  yielded  before  an  ex- 
traordinary feeling  of  delight ;  she  tried  in  vain  to  col- 
lect her  scattered  mind — she  wished  to  reproach  him. 

291 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  Are  you  going  to  answer  me,  Ellen  ?"  and  he  took 
her  hand. 

"Ned,  are  you  a  Catholic?"  she  said,  turning  sud- 
denly. 

"  I  was  born  one,  but  I  have  thought  little  about 
religion.  I  have  had  other  things  to  think  about. 
What  does  it  matter?  Religion  doesn't  help  us  to 
love  one  another." 

"  I  should  like  you  better  if  you  were  a  good  Catho- 
lic." 

"  I  wonder  how  that  is  ?"  he  said,  and  he  admired 
the  round  hand  and  its  pretty  articulations,  and  she 
closed  her  hand  on  his  with  a  delicious  movement. 

"  I  could  like  you  better,  Ned,  if  you  were  a  Catho- 
lic. ...  I  think  I  could." 

"  What  has  my  being  a  good  Catholic  got  to  do 
with  your  love  of  me  ?" 

And  he  watched  the  small  and  somewhat  severe 
profile  looking  across  the  old  grey  wall  into  the  flat 
grey  sky. 

"  I  did  not  say  I  loved  you,"  she  said,  almost  an- 
grily ;  "  but  if  I  did  love  you,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  tenderly,  "  and  you  were  religious,  I  should  be 
loving  something  eternal.  You  don't  understand  what 
I  mean?  What  I  am  saying  to  you  must  seem  like 
nonsense." 

"  No,  it  doesn't,  Ellen,  only  I  am  content  with  the 
reality.  I  can  love  you  without  wings." 

He  watched  for  the  look  of  annoyance  in  her  face 
that  he  knew  his  words  would  provoke,  but  her  face 
was  turned  away. 

"  I  like  you,  but  I  am  afraid  of  you.  It  is  a  very 
strange  feeling.  You  ran  away  with  a  circus  and  you 

292 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

let  the  lion  die  and  you  went  to  fight  in  Cuba.  You 
have  loved  other  women,  and  I  have  never  loved  any- 
one. I  never  cared  for  a  man  until  I  saw  you,  until  I 
looked  up  from  the  album." 

"  I  understand  very  well,  Ellen ;  I  knew  something 
was  going  to  happen  to  me  in  Ireland." 

She  turned ;  he  was  glad  to  see  her  full  face  again. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  but  she  saw  through 
him,  and  jealous  of  her  thought  he  drew  her  towards 
him. 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  arbour,"  he  said.  "  I  have  never 
been  into  the  arbour  of  clipped  limes  with  you." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  into  the  arbour  ?" 

"  I  want  to  kiss  you.  .  .  .  The  gardener  can  see  us 
now ;  a  moment  ago  he  was  behind  the  Jerusalem  arti- 
chokes." 

"  I  hadn't  noticed  the  gardener ;  I  hadn't  thought 
about  him." 

She  had  persuaded  herself  before  she  went  into  the 
arbour,  and  coming  out  of  the  arbour  she  said : — 

"  I  don't  think  father  will  raise  any  objection." 

"  But  you  will  speak  to  him.  Hello !  we're  forget- 
ting the  fish,  and  it  was  the  fish  that  brought  all  this 
about.  Was  it  to  bring  this  about  that  they  lived  or 
are  to  be  eaten  to-night  at  dinner  ?" 

"  Ned,  you  take  a  strange  pleasure  in  making  life 
seem  wicked." 

"  I'm  sorry  I've  been  so  unsuccessful,  but  will  you 
ask  you  father  to  invite  me,  Ellen?  and  I'll  try  and 
make  life  seem  nice — and  the  trout  will  try  too." 

Ellen  did  not  know  whether  she  liked  or  disliked 
Ned's  levity,  but  when  she  looked  at  him  an  over- 
powering emotion  clouded  her  comprehension  and  she 

293 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

walked  in  silence,  thinking  of  when  he  would  kiss  her 
again.  At  the  end  of  the  walk  she  stopped  to  bind 
up  a  carnation  that  had  fallen  from  its  stake. 

"'  Father  will  be  wondering  what  has  become  of 
us." 

"  I  think,"  said  Ned,  and  his  own  cowardice  amused 
him,  "  I  think  you  had  better  tell  your  father  yourself. 
You  will  tell  him  much  better  than  I." 

"  And  what  will  you  do?"  she  said,  turning  suddenly 
and  looking  at  him  with  fervid  eyes.  "  Will  you  wait 
here  for  me?" 

"  No,  I  will  go  home,  and  do  you  come  and  fetch 
me — and  don't  forget  to  tell  him  I  caught  the  trout 
and  have  earned  an  invitation  to  dinner." 

His  irresponsibility  enchanted  her  in  spite  of  her- 
self— Ned  had  judged  the  situation  rightly  when  he 
said :  "  It  is  the  circus  aspiring  to  the  academy  and 
the  academy  spying  the  circus."  His  epigram  occurred 
to  him  as  he  walked  home  and  it  amused  him,  and  he 
thought  of  how  unexpected  their  lives  would  be,  and 
he  hummed  beautiful  music  as  he  went  along  the  roads, 
Schumann's  Lotus  Flower  and  The  Moonlight.  Then 
he  recalled  the  beautiful  duet,  Siegmund's  and  Sieg- 
linde's  May  Time,  and  turning  from  sublimity  sud- 
denly into  triviality  he  chanted  the  somewhat  common 
but  expressive  duet  in  Mireille,  and  the  superficiality  of 
its  emotion  pleased  him  at  the  moment  and  he  hummed 
it  until  he  arrived  at  the  farm-house. 

Mrs.  Grattan  could  tell  his  coming  from  afar,  for  no 
one  in  the  country  whistled  so  beautifully  as  Mr.  Car- 
mady,  she  said,  "  every  note  is  clear  and  distinct ;  and 
it  does  not  matter  how  many  there  are  in  the  tune  he 
will  not  let  one  escape  him  and  there  is  always  a  pleas- 

294 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

ant  look  in  his  face  when  you  open  the  door  to  him;" 
and  she  ran  to  the  door. 

"Mrs.  Grattan,  won't  you  get  me  a  cup  of  tea?" 
And  then  he  felt  he  must  talk  to  some  one.  "  You 
needn't  bring  it  upstairs,  I  will  take  it  in  the  kitchen 
if  you'll  let  me." 

Mrs.  Grattan  had  a  beautiful  kitchen.  It  had  an  old 
dresser  with  a  carved  top  and  a  grandfather's  clock, 
and  Ned  liked  to  sit  on  the  table  and  watch  the  stove. 
She  poured  him  out  a  cup  of  tea  and  he  drank  it, 
swinging  his  legs  all  the  time. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Grattan,  I'll  tell  you  some  news — I 
think  I  am  going  to  marry  Miss  Cronin." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  it  doesn't  astonish  me,"  but  she 
nearly  let  the  teapot  drop.  "  From  the  first  day  you 
came  here  I  always  thought  something  was  going  to 
happen  to  you." 

He  had  no  sooner  told  her  the  news  than  he  be- 
gan to  regret  he  had  told  her,  and  he  said  that  Miss 
Cronin  had  gone  to  her  father  to  ask  his  consent. 
Of  course,  if  he  did  not  give  it,  there  would  be  no 
marriage. 

"  But  he  will  give  it.  Miss  Ellen  does  exactly  as 
she  likes  with  him,  and  it's  a  fine  fortune  you  will  be 
having  with  her." 

"  It  isn't  of  that  I  am  thinking,"  said  Ned,  "  but  of 
her  red  hair." 

"  And  you  wouldn't  believe  me  when  I  said  that 
she  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  country.  Now  you 
will  see  for  yourself." 

Ned  hadn't  finished  his  tea  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door. 

"  And  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Ellen  ?"  said  Mrs. 
295 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

Grattan,  and  Ellen  guessed  from  her  manner  that  Ned 
had  told  her. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Grattan,  I  am  glad  that  you  are  the 
first  person  to  bear  the  news  to.  I  have  just  asked 
my  father's  consent  and  he  has  given  it.  I  am  going 
to  marry  Mr.  Carmady." 

Mrs.  Grattan  was  sorry  there  was  no  cake  on  the 
table,  but  there  was  some  buttered  toast  in  the  oven; 
and  Ellen  reminded  her  of  the  paper  boats  and  the 
alder-trees,  and  they  spoke  for  a  long  time  about  her 
son  James  and  about  people  that  Ned  knew  nothing 
of,  until  Ned  began  to  feel  bored  and  went  to  the  win- 
dow. Every  now  and  again  he  heard  a  word  referring 
to  their  marriage,  and  when  the  women  had  done 
their  talk,  Ellen  said : — 

"  Father  says  you  are  to  come  back  to  dinner." 

"  Mrs.  Grattan,"  said  Ned,  "  we  caught  three  trout 
this  afternoon,"  and  Ellen  wondered  why  Ned  should 
take  so  much  trouble  to  explain  the  tale  of  their  fish- 
ing, she  was  intending  to  talk  to  them  of  their  honey- 
moon. 

"  I  was  thinking,  Ned,  that  as  our  love  began  in  a 
love  of  Ireland,  we  might  go  for  a  tour  round  Ireland, 
and  see  the  places  that  Ireland  loves  best." 

She  was  eager  for  a  change  of  scene  and  a  few 
weeks  later  they  began  their  wanderings.  The  first 
place  they  visited  was  Tara,  and,  standing  on  the 
Mound  of  the  Hostages,  Ellen  pointed  out  the  Rath 
of  Grania.  All  over  Ireland  there  are  cromlechs,  and 
the  people  point  to  those  as  the  places  where  the  lovers 
had  rested  in  their  flight.  Grania  became  one  of  Ned's 
heroines,  and  he  spoke  so  much  of  her  that  Ellen  grew 
a  little  jealous.  They  talked  of  her  under  the  ruins 

296 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

of  Dun  Angus  and  under  the  arches  of  Cormac's 
Chapel,  the  last  and  most  beautiful  piece  of  Irish  archi- 
tecture. 

"  We  were  getting  on  very  well,"  Ned  said,  "  until 
the  English  came.  This  was  the  last  thing  we  did 
and  after  this  no  more." 

On  another  occasion  he  ascribed  the  failure  of  the 
Irish  in  art  and  literature  to  the  fact  that  they  had 
always  loved  the  next  world,  and  that  the  beautiful 
world  under  their  feet  had  been  neglected  or  given 
over  to  priests.  "  I  hope,  Ned,"  said  she,  "  that  you 
will  soon  be  at  the  head  of  affairs." 

He  took  her  hand  and  they  wandered  on  amid  the 
ruins,  saying  that  as  soon  as  their  honeymoon  was 
over  they  were  going  to  live  in  a  pretty  house  at  the 
foot  of  the  Dublin  mountains. 

Her  father  had  offered  to  make  her  an  allowance, 
but  she  preferred  a  lump  sum,  and  this  lump  sum  of 
many  thousands  of  pounds  had  been  invested  in  for- 
eign securities,  for  Ellen  wished  that  Ned  should  be 
free  to  advocate  whatever  policy  he  judged  best  for 
Ireland. 

"  My  dear,  shall  we  buy  this  table?" 

And  while  the  price  and  the  marquetry  were  dis- 
cussed she  remembered  suddenly  that  a  most  experi- 
enced electioneering  agent  was  coming  to  dinner. 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  asked  him,"  said  Ned ;  "  I 
looked  forward  to  spending  the  evening  with  you," 
and  he  watched  happiness  flash  into  her  eyes. 

"  There  are  plenty  of  evenings  before  us,  and  I  hope 
you  won't  be  tired  of  spending  them  with  me." 

He  said  he  never  wished  for  better  company,  and 
they  strolled  on  through  the  show-rooms. 

297 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

Turning  from  some  tapestried  curtains,  he  told  her 
he  was  weary  of  the  life  of  the  camp.  One  night  in 
Cuba  they  had  crossed  a  mountain  by  a  bridle-path. 
At  the  top  of  the  mountain  they  had  come  to  a  ledge 
of  rock  three  feet  high  and  had  to  leap  their  horses 
one  by  one  up  this  ledge,  and  the  enemy  might  have 
attacked  them  at  any  moment.  And  this  incident  was 
typical  of  what  his  life  had  been  for  the  last  few  years. 
It  had  been  a  skein  of  adventure,  and  now  his  wife 
was  his  adventure.  Flowers  stood  in  pretty  vases  on 
his  table  in  the  summer-time  and  around  the  room  were 
his  books,  and  on  the  table  his  pens  and  paper.  The 
dining-room  was  always  a  little  surprise,  so  profusely 
was  the  table  covered  with  silver.  There  were  beau- 
tiful dinner  and  dessert  services  to  look  at;  the  ser- 
vants were  well  trained,  they  moved  about  the  table 
quickly — in  a  word,  his  home  was  full  of  grace  and 
beauty.  Lately  he  had  been  a  great  deal  from  home 
and  had  come  to  look  on  Ellen  as  a  delicious  recom- 
pense for  the  fatigue  of  a  week's  electioneering  in 
the  West.  The  little  train  journey  from  Dublin  was 
an  extraordinary  excitement,  the  passing  of  the  sta- 
tions one  by  one,  the  discovery  of  his  wife  on  the  plat- 
form, and  walking  home  through  the  bright  evening, 
telling  how  his  speech  had  been  received. 

Ellen  always  took  Ned  round  the  garden  before 
they  went  into  dinner,  and  after  dinner  he  went  to  the 
piano;  he  loved  his  music  as  she  loved  her  garden. 
She  would  listen  to  him  for  a  while,  pleased  to  find 
that  she  liked  music.  But  she  would  steal  away  to 
her  garden  in  a  little  while  and  he  would  go  on  play- 
ing for  a  long  while  before  he  would  notice  her  ab- 
sence; then  he  would  follow  her. 

298 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  There  were  no  late  frosts  this  year,  and  I  have 
never  seen  so  many  caterpillars !"  she  said  one  evening 
when  he  joined  her.  "  See,  they  have  eaten  this  flower 
nearly  all  away." 

"  How  bright  the  moon  is,  we  can  find  them  by  the 
light  of  the  moon." 

Passing  behind  the  hollyhocks  she  threw  the  snails 
to  Ned,  not  liking  to  tread  upon  them  herself;  Ellen 
was  intent  on  freeing  her  flowers  from  gnawing  in- 
sects and  Ned  tried  to  feel  interested  in  them,  but  he 
liked  the  moonlight  on  the  Dublin  mountains  far  better. 
He  could  not  remember  which  was  Honesty  and  which 
was  Rockit,  and  the  difference  had  been  pointed  out 
to  him  many  times.  He  liked  Larkspur  and  Canter- 
bury bells,  or  was  it  their  names  that  he  loved  them 
for?  He  sometimes  mistook  one  for  the  other  just  as 
Ellen  mistook  one  sonata  for  another,  but  she  always 
liked  the  same  sonatas. 

"  In  another  month  the  poppies  will  be  over  every- 
thing," she  said,  "  and  my  pansies  are  beautiful — see 
these  beautiful  yellow  pansies !  But  you  are  not  look- 
ing at  my  garden." 

They  went  towards  their  apple-tree,  and  Ellen  said 
it  was  the  largest  she  had  ever  seen ;  its  boughs  were 
thickest  over  the  seat,  and  shot  out  straight,  making 
as  it  were  a  little  roof.  The  moon  was  now  brilliant 
among  the  boughs,  and  drawn  by  the  moon  they  left 
their  seat  and  passed  out  of  the  garden  by  the  wicket, 
for  that  night  they  wished  to  see  the  fields  with  the 
woods  sloping  down  to  the  long  shores  of  the  sea,  and 
they  stood  watching,  thinking  they  had  never  seen 
the  sea  so  beautiful  before.  Now  on  the  other  side 
were  the  hills,  and  the  moon  led  them  up  the  hillside, 

299 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

up  the  little  path  by  a  ruined  church  and  over  a  stream 
that  was  difficult  to  cross,  for  the  stepping-stones  were 
placed  crookedly.  Ellen  took  Ned's  hand,  and  a  little 
further  on  there  were  ash-trees  and  not  a  wind  in  all 
the  boughs. 

"  How  grey  the  moonlight  is  on  the  mountain,"  Ned 
said,  and  they  went  through  the  furze  where  the  cattle 
were  lying,  and  the  breath  of  the  cattle  was  odorous 
in  the  night  like  the  breath  of  the  earth  itself,  and 
Ned  said  that  the  cattle  were  part  of  the  earth;  and 
then  they  sat  on  a  Druid  stone  and  wondered  at  the 
chance  that  brought  them  together,  and  they  wondered 
how  they  could  have  lived  if  chance  had  not  brought 
them  together. 

Now,  the  stone  they  were  sitting  upon  was  a  Druid 
stone,  and  it  was  from  Ellen's  lips  that  Ned  heard  how 
Brian  had  conquered  the  Danes,  and  how  a  century 
later  a  traitor  had  brought  the  English  over;  and  she 
told  the  story  of  Ireland's  betrayal  with  such  fervour 
that  Ned  felt  she  was  the  support  his  character  re- 
quired, the  support  he  had  been  looking  for  all  his 
life;  her  self-restraint  and  her  gravity  were  the  sup- 
ports his  character  required,  and  these  being  thrown 
into  the  scale,  life  stood  at  equipoise.  The  women  who 
had  preceded  Ellen  were  strange,  fantastic  women, 
counterparts  of  himself,  but  he  had  always  aspired  to 
a  grave  and  well-mannered  woman  who  was  never 
ridiculous. 

She  protested,  saying  that  she  wished  Ned  to  ex- 
press his  own  ideas.  He  pleaded  that  he  was  learning 
Ireland  from  her  lips  and  that  his  own  ideas  about 
Ireland  were  superficial  and  false.  Every  day  he  was 
catching  up  new  ideas  and  every  day  he  was  shedding 

300 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

them.  He  must  wait  until  he  had  re-knit  himself 
firmly  to  the  tradition,  and  in  talking  to  her  he  felt 
that  she  was  the  tradition;  he  was  sure  that  he  could 
do  no  better  than  accept  her  promptings,  at  least  for 
the  present. 

"  We  shall  always  think  the  same.  Do  you  not 
feel  that?"  and  when  they  returned  to  the  house  he 
fetched  a  piece  of  paper  and  pencil  and  begged  of 
her  to  dictate,  and  then  begged  of  her  to  write  what 
she  would  like  him  to  say.  He  said  that  the  sight  of 
her  handwriting  helped  him,  and  he  thought  his  life 
would  crumble  to  pieces  if  she  were  taken  from  him. 

Ellen  had  always  said  he  would  be  a  success,  and 
he  was  a  success;  he  had  begun  to  feel  success  re- 
volving about  him;  he  had  begun  to  feel  that  he  was 
the  centre  of  things :  for  everyone  listened  when  he 
spoke;  his  opinion  was  sought  out,  and  he  could  see 
the  people  looking  towards  him  for  guidance.  But 
there  was  a  little  rancour  in  his  heart,  as  there  always 
is  in  a  man's  heart  when  he  is  not  speaking  his  whole 
heart,  for  not  more  than  half  of  himself  was  engaged  in 
the  battle ;  he  knew  that  he  had  given  over  half  of  him- 
self as  hostage — half  of  himself  was  in  his  wife's  keep- 
ing— and  he  often  wondered  if  it  would  break  out 
of  her  custody  in  spite  of  her  vigilance  and  his  vows. 

He  had  told  her  that  though  he  was  no  friend  of 
the  Church,  he  was  not  an  active  enemy,  and  believed 
that  he  was  speaking  the  truth.  The  fight  for  free 
will  would  have  to  be  fought  in  Ireland  some  day,  and 
this  fight  was  the  most  vital;  but  he  agreed  with  her 
that  other  fights  would  have  to  be  fought  and  won 
before  the  great  fight  could  be  arranged  for.  The 
order  of  the  present  day  was  for  lesser  battles,  and 

301 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

he  promised  again  and  again  he  would  not  raise  the 
religious  question,  and  every  time  he  promised  his  wife 
his  life  seemed  to  vanish;  the  lesser  battles  were 
necessary.  It  was  the  fight  for  free  will  that  inter- 
ested him.  But  a  politician  is  the  man  who  does  the 
day's  work.  And  in  the  autumn  he  agreed  to  go  to 
America  to  speechify  and  to  get  money  for  the  lesser 
battles.  It  was  said  he  was  the  man  who  could  get 
the  money — what  better  man  could  they  send  than  an 
Irish- American  ?  An  American  soldier  and  a  journal- 
ist These  obvious  remarks  were  on  everyone's  lips, 
but  after  speaking  everyone  paused,  for,  notwithstand- 
ing Ellen's  care,  Ned  was  suspected;  the  priests  had 
begun  to  suspect  him,  but  there  was  no  grounds  for 
opposing  him. 

He  himself  was  despondent,  whereas  Ellen  was  en- 
thusiastic. Her  knowledge  of  Irish  politics  enabled 
her  to  see  that  Ned's  chance  had  come. 

"  If  you  succeed  in  America,  you'll  come  back  the 
first  man  in  Ireland." 

"  Even  so,"  said  Ned,  "  it  would  be  more  natural 
for  you  to  be  sorry  that  I  am  going." 

"  I  cannot  be  sorry  and  glad  at  the  same  time." 

"  You  will  be  lonely." 

"  Very  likely ;  but,  Ned,  I  shall  not  be  looking  very 
well  for  the  next  two  months." 

"  You  mean  on  account  of  the  baby ;  the  next  few 
months  will  be  a  trying  time  for  you;  I  should  be 
with  you." 

They  continued  to  walk  round  and  round  their  apple- 
tree  and  Ellen  did  not  answer  for  a  long  while. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  America.  I  don't  care  that 
you  should  see  me  losing  my  figure." 

302 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  We  have  spent  many  pleasant  hours  under  this 
apple-tree." 

"  Yes,  it  has  been  a  dear  tree,"  she  said. 

"  And  in  about  six  years  there  will  be  one  who  will 
appreciate  this  tree  as  we  have  never  appreciated  it. 
I  can  see  the  little  chap  running  after  the  apples." 

"  But,  Ned,  it  may  be  a  girl." 

"  Then  it  will  be  like  you,  dear." 

She  said  she  would  send  a  telegram  and  Ned  shook 
the  boughs,  and  their  apple-gathering  seemed  to  be 
portentous.  The  sound  of  apples  falling  in  the  dusk 
garden,  a  new  life  coming  into  the  world !  "  Dear  me," 
Ned  said,  "  men  have  gathered  apples  and  led  their 
fruitful  wives  towards  the  house  since  the  beginning 
of  time."  He  said  these  words  as  he  looked  over  the 
waste  of  water  seeing  Ireland  melting  into  grey  clouds. 

He  turned  and  looked  towards  where  the  vessel  was 
going.  A  new  life  was  about  to  begin  and  he  was  glad 
of  that.  "  For  the  next  three  months  I  shall  be  car- 
ried along  on  the  tide  of  human  affairs.  In  a  week, 
in  a  week ;"  and  that  evening  he  entered  into  con- 
versation with  some  people  whom  he  thought  would 
interest  him.  "  It  is  a  curious  change,"  he  said,  three 
weeks  later,  as  he  walked  home  from  a  restaurant; 
and  he  enjoyed  the  change  so  much  that  he  wondered 
if  his  love  for  his  wife  would  be  the  same  when  he 
returned.  "  Yes,  that  will  be  another  change."  And 
for  the  next  three  months  he  was  carried  like  a  piece 
of  wreckage  from  hotel  to  hotel.  "  How  different  this 
life  is  from  the  life  in  Ireland.  Here  we  live  in  the 
actual  moment."  And  he  began  to  wonder.  He  had 
not  been  thinking  five  minutes  when  a  knock  came 
to  the  door,  and  he  was  handed  a  telegram  contain- 

303 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

ing  two  words :  "  A  boy."  He  had  always  felt  it 
was  going  to  be  a  boy.  "  Though  it  does  cost  a  shil- 
ling a  word  they  might  have  let  me  know  how  she 
is,"  he  thought.  And  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  thinking 
of  his  wife — indulging  in  sensations  of  her  beauty, 
seeing  her  gem-like  eyes,  her  pretty  oval  face,  and  her 
red  hair  scattered  about  the  pillow.  At  first  he  was 
not  certain  whether  the  baby  was  lying  by  the  side  of 
the  mother,  but  now  he  saw  it,  and  he  thrilled  with  a 
sense  of  wonder.  The  commonest  of  all  occurrences 
never  ceases  to  be  the  most  wonderful,  and  there  lay 
his  wife  and  child  in  the  room  he  knew  so  well — the 
curtains  with  a  fruit  pattern  upon  them,  the  pale  wall- 
paper with  roses  climbing  up  a  trellis,  and  pretty  blue 
ribbons  intervening  between  each  line  of  roses.  The 
room  was  painted  white,  and  he  knew  the  odour  of  the 
room  well,  and  the  sensation  of  the  carpet.  He  could 
see  the  twilight,  and  the  bulky  nurse  passing  to  and 
fro;  and  his  thoughts  went  back  to  his  child,  and  he 
began  to  wonder  if  it  were  like  him  or  like  its  mother. 
It  was  probably  like  both.  His  eyes  went  to  the  clock, 
and  he  thought  of  the  meeting  he  was  going  to.  The 
notes  of  his  speech  were  upon  the  table,  but  he  found 
great  difficulty  in  rousing  himself  out  of  his  chair;  it 
was  so  pleasant  to  lie  there,  thinking  of  his  wife,  of 
his  home,  and  of  his  child.  But  into  this  vague  wan- 
dering sensation  of  happy  and  beautiful  things  there 
came  a  sudden  vision  and  a  thought.  He  saw  his  wife 
take  the  baby  and  put  it  to  her  breast,  and  he  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  that  beautiful  breast,  so  dear  to 
him,  should  suffer  harm.  He  had  often  thought  of 
Ellen  as  a  beautiful  marble — she  was  as  full  of  ex- 
quisite lines  as  any  marble — and  only  very  rarely  had 

304 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

he  thought  of  her  as  a  mother ;  the  thought  had  never 
been  entertained  long,  for  it  was  never  wholly  sympa- 
thetic. 

Now  his  thoughts  quickened,  and  it  seemed  urgent 
that  he  must  communicate  at  once  with  his  wife.  She 
must  not  suckle  the  baby!  Only  by  telegram  could 
he  reach  her  soon  enough,  but  it  was  not  possible  to 
telegraph  such  a  thing.  He  must  write,  but  the  letter 
would  take  six  days  to  reach  her,  and  he  stood  think- 
ing. The  post  was  going  out :  if  he  wrote  at  once  she 
would  get  his  letter  in  a  week.  He  was  due  at  the  meet- 
ing in  about  twenty  minutes;  the  notes  of  his  speech 
still  lay  on  the  table,  and  he  gathered  them  up  and 
put  them  in  his  pocket,  and  drawing  a  sheet  of  paper 
towards  him,  he  began  a  hurried  letter.  But  as  soon 
as  he  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  he  experienced  great 
difficulty  in  expressing  his  feelings ;  they  were  intense 
enough,  but  they  were  vague,  and  he  must  find  reasons. 
He  must  tell  her  that  he  loved  her  beauty,  and  that 
it  "must  suffer  no  disfigurement  from  a  baby's  lips.  No 
sooner  did  he  put  his  feelings  into  words  than  they 
shocked  him,  and  he  knew  how  much  more  they  would 
shock  Ellen,  and  he  wondered  how  he  could  think  such 
things  about  his  own  child.  The  truth  was,  there  was 
little  time  for  thinking,  and  he  had  to  tell  Ellen  what 
she  must  do.  It  so  happened  that  he  had  heard  only 
the  other  day  that  goat's  milk  was  the  exact  equivalent 
to  human,  but  it  was  often  difficult  to  procure.  "  You 
will  find  no  difficulty,"  he  said,  "  at  the  foot  of  the 
Dublin  mountains  in  procuring  goat's  milk."  His 
thoughts  rushed  on,  and  he  remembered  the  peasant 
women.  One  could  easily  be  found  who  would  put 
her  baby  on  goat's  milk  and  come  and  nurse  his  child 
20  305 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

for  a  few  shillings — ten  or  fifteen  shillings  a  week; 
Ellen's  beauty  was  worth  a  great  deal  more.  The 
hands  of  the  clock  went  on,  he  had  to  close  his  letter 
and  post  it;  and  no  sooner  was  it  posted  than  he  was 
beset  by  qualms  of  conscience.  During  the  meeting 
he  wondered  what  Ellen  would  think  of  his  letter,  and 
he  feared  it  would  shock  her  and  trouble  her;  for, 
while  considering  the  rights  of  the  child,  she  would 
remember  his  admiration  of  her. 

He  passed  the  following  days  uneasily,  and  when  the 
seventh  day  came  he  had  no  difficulty  in  imagining 
Ellen  reading  his  letter,  and  the  scene  he  imagined  was 
very  like  what  really  happened.  His  letter  troubled 
Ellen  greatly.  She  had  been  thinking  only  of  her  baby, 
she  had  been  suckling  it  for  several  days,  and  it  had 
given  her  pleasure  to  suckle  it.  She  had  not  thought 
of  herself  at  all,  and  Ned's  order  that  she  should  pass 
her  child  on  to  another,  and  consider  her  personal 
charm  for  him,  troubled  her  even  to  tears;  and  when 
she  told  the  nurse  her  husband's  wishes  the  nurse  was 
sorry  that  Mrs.  Carmady  had  been  troubled,  for  she 
was  still  very  weak.  Now  the  child  was  crying ;  Ellen 
put  it  to  her  little  cup-like  breast,  which  was,  never- 
theless, full  of  milk,  and  it  was  for  the  nurse  to  tell 
her  that  a  foster-mother  could  easily  be  found  in  the 
village ;  but  this  did  not  console  her  and  she  cried  very 
bitterly.  The  doctor  called.  He  did  not  think  there 
was  anything  strange  in  Ned's  letter.  He  approved 
of  it !  He  said  that  Ellen  was  delicate  and  had  nursed 
her  baby  long  enough,  and  it  appeared  that  he  had 
been  thinking  of  recommending  a  nurse  to  her,  and  he 
spoke  of  a  peasant  woman  he  had  just  seen.  He  spoke 
with  so  much  assurance  that  Ellen  was  soothed,  but 

306 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

he  had  not  left  her  very  long  before  she  felt  that 
medical  opinion  would  not  satisfy  her,  that  she  must 
have  theological  opinion  as  well,  and  she  wrote  a  letter 
to  Father  Brennan  asking  him  to  come  down  to  see 
her,  mentioning  that  she  had  had  a  baby  and  could  not 
go  to  see  him.  It  would  be  a  great  relief  to  her  to  see 
him  for  a  few  minutes,  and  if  he  would  come  at  once 
she  would  consider  it  a  great  favour.  If  it  were  possi- 
ble for  him  to  come  down  that  very  afternoon  she 
would  be  deeply  grateful.  She  wished  to  consult  him, 
and  on  a  matter  on  which  she  felt  very  deeply,  and 
nothing,  she  said,  but  a  priest's  advice  could  allay  her 
scruples. 

The  nurse  gave  her  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pencil, 
and  she  scribbled  a  letter  as  best  she  could  in  her  bed, 
and  lay  back  fatigued.  The  nurse  said  she  must  not 
fret,  that  Father  Brennan  would  be  sure  to  come  to 
her  at  once  if  he  were  at  home,  and  Ellen  knew  that 
that  was  so;  and  she  felt  that  she  was  peevish,  but 
she  felt  that  Ned  ought  not  to  have  written  her  that 
letter. 

The  hours  that  afternoon  were  very  long  and  she 
restless  and  weary  of  them,  and  she  asked  the  nurse 
many  times  to  go  to  the  window  to  see  if  Father  Bren- 
nan were  coming.  At  last  he  came,  and  she  told  him 
of  the  letter  she  had  received,  not  wishing  to  show  him 
the  letter,  for  it  was  somewhat  extravagant,  and  she 
did  not  like  a  priest  to  read  Ned's  praise  of  her  body. 
She  was  anxious,  however,  to  give  him  a  true  account 
of  the  letter,  and  she  would  have  talked  a  long  while 
if  the  priest  had  not  stopped  her,  saying  the  matter  was 
one  for  the  doctor  to  decide.  The  Church  had  never 
expressed  any  views  on  the  subject :  whether  a  mother 

307 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

was  justified  in  nursing  her  child  or  in  passing  it  over 
to  a  foster-mother.  It  was  entirely  a  question  for  the 
doctor,  and  if  the  doctor  advised  such  a  course  she 
would  be  wrong  not  to  follow  it.  Ellen  felt  that  she 
had  been  misunderstood,  and  she  tried  to  tell  the  priest 
that  Ned's  letter  had  been  inspired  by  his  admiration 
of  her,  and  that  this  seemed  to  her  selfish.  She  won- 
dered how  a  father  could  consider  his  wife  before  the 
child,  but  when  she  said  this  she  did  not  feel  she  was 
speaking  quite  sincerely,  and  this  troubled  her;  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  tears,  and  the  nurse  came  in  and 
said  she  had  spoken  enough  that  afternoon,  and  the 
priest  bade  her  good-by.  The  doctor  came  in  soon 
after;  there  was  some  whispering,  and  Ellen  knew 
that  the  woman  he  had  brought  with  him  was  the 
foster-mother,  and  the  baby  was  taken  from  her,  and 
she  saw  it  fix  its  gluttonous  little  lips  on  the  foster- 
mother's  breast. 

Now  that  the  priest  had  ordered  her  conscience,  she 
got  well  rapidly,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  her  to  pre- 
pare herself  for  her  husband's  admiration.  The  nurse 
thought  he  would  perceive  no  difference  in  her,  but 
when  they  put  on  her  stays  it  was  quite  clear  that  she 
had  grown  stouter,  and  she  cried  out,  "  I'm  quite  a  little 
mother!"  But  the  nurse  said  her  figure  would  come 
back  all  right.  Ned's  return  had  been  delayed,  and 
this  she  regarded  as  fortunate,  for  there  was  no  doubt 
that  in  a  month  she  would  be  able  to  meet  him,  slight 
and  graceful  as  she  had  ever  been. 

As  soon  as  she  was  able  she  went  for  long  walks 
on  the  hills,  and  every  day  she  improved  in  health  and 
in  figure;  and  when  she  read  Ned's  letter  saying  he 
would  be  in  Cork  in  a  few  days  she  felt  certain  he 

308 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

would  see  no  change  in  her.  She  opened  her  dress  and 
could  discern  no  difference;  perhaps  a  slight  wave  in 
the  breast's  line ;  she  was  not  quite  sure  and  she  hoped 
Ned  would  not  notice  it.  And  she  chose  a  white  dress. 
Ned  liked  her  in  white,  and  she  tied  it  with  a  blue  sash ; 
she  put  on  a  white  hat  trimmed  with  china  roses,  and 
the  last  look  convinced  her  that  she  had  never  looked 
prettier. 

"  I  never  wore  so  becoming  a  hat,"  she  said.  She 
walked  slowly  so  as  not  to  be  out  of  breath,  and,  swing- 
ing her  white  parasol  over  the  tops  of  her  tan  boots, 
she  stood  at  the  end  of  the  platform  waiting  for  the 
train  to  come  up. 

"  I  had  expected  to  see  you  pale,"  he  said,  "  and 
perhaps  a  little  stouter,  but  you  are  the  same,  the  very 
same."  And  saying  that  he  would  be  able  to  talk  to 
her  better  if  he  were  free  from  his  bag,  he  gave  it  to 
a  boy  to  carry.  And  they  strolled  down  the  warm, 
dusty  road. 

They  lived  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  station, 
and  there  were  great  trees  and  old  crumbling  walls, 
and,  beyond  the  walls,  water  meadows,  and  it  was 
pleasant  to  look  over  the  walls  and  watch  the  cattle 
grazing  peacefully.  And  to-day  the  fields  were  so 
pleasant  that  Ned  and  Ellen  could  hardly  speak  from 
the  pleasure  of  looking  at  them. 

"  You've  seen  nothing  more  beautiful  in  America, 
have  you,  Ned?" 

There  was  so  much  to  say  it  was  difficult  to  know 
where  to  begin,  and  it  was  delicious  to  be  stopped  by 
the  scent  of  the  honeysuckle.  Ned  gathered  some 
blossoms  to  put  into  his  wife's  dress,  but  while  ad- 
miring her  dress  and  her  hat  and  her  pretty  red  hair 

309 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

he  remembered  the  letter  he  had  written  to  her  in 
answer  to  her  telegram. 

"  I've  had  many  qualms  about  the  letter  I  wrote  you 
in  answer  to  your  telegram.  After  all,  a  child's  right 
upon  the  mother  is  the  first  right  of  all.  I  wrote  the 
letter  in  a  hurry,  and  hardly  knew  what  I  was  saying." 

"  We  got  an  excellent  nurse,  Ned,  and  the  boy  is 
doing  very  well." 

"  So  you  said  in  your  letters.  But  after  posting  my 
letter  I  said  to  myself:  if  it  causes  me  trouble,  how 
much  more  will  it  cause  her?" 

"  Your  letter  did  trouble  me,  Ned.  I  was  feeling 
very  weak  that  morning  and  the  baby  was  crying  for 
me,  for  I  had  been  nursing  him  for  a  week.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  I  was  torn  both  ways,  so  I  sent  up 
a  note  to  Father  Brennan  asking  him  to  come  to  see 
me,  and  he  came  down  and  told  me  that  I  was  quite 
free  to  give  my  baby  to  a  foster-mother." 

"  But  what  does  Father  Brennan  know  about  it  more 
than  anyone  of  us?" 

"  The  sanction  of  the  Church,  Ned " 

"  The  sanction  of  the  Church !  What  childish  non- 
sense is  this?"  he  said.  "The  authority  of  a  priest. 
So  it  was  not  for  me,  but  because  a  priest " 

"  But,  Ned,  there  must  be  a  code  of  morality,  and 
these  men  devote  their  lives  to  thinking  out  one  for  us." 

He  could  see  that  she  was  looking  more  charming 
than  she  had  ever  looked  before,  but  her  beauty  could 
not  crush  the  anger  out  of  him ;  and  she  never  seemed 
further  from  him,  not  even  when  the  Atlantic  divided 
them. 

"  Those  men  devote  their  lives  to  thinking  out  a  code 
of  morality  for  us!  You  submit  your  soul  to  their 

310 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

keeping.     And  what  remains  of  you  when  you  have 
given  over  your  soul?" 

"  But,  Ned,  why  this  outbreak?  You  knew  I  was  a 
Catholic  when  you  married  me." 

"  Yes,  ...  of  course,  and  I'm  sorry,  Ellen,  for 
losing  my  temper.  But  it  is  only  in  Ireland  that  women 
submit  themselves  body  and  soul.  It  is  extraordinary ; 
it  is  beyond  human  reason." 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  and  Ned  tried  to  forget 
that  his  wife  was  a  Catholic.  Her  religion  did  not 
prevent  her  from  wearing  a  white  dress  and  a  hat  with 
roses  in  it. 

"  Shall  I  go  up-stairs  to  see  the  baby,  or  will  you 
bring  him  down?" 

"  I'll  bring  him  down." 

And  it  was  a  great  lump  of  white  flesh  with  blue 
eyes  and  a  little  red  down  on  its  head  that  she  carried 
in  her  arms. 

"  And  now,  Ned,  forget  the  priest  and  admire  your 
boy." 

"  He  seems  a  beautiful  boy,  so  healthy  and  sleepy." 

"  I  took  him  out  of  his  bed,  but  he  never  cries. 
Nurse  said  she  never  heard  of  a  baby  that  did  not  cry. 
Do  you  know  I'm  sometimes  tempted  to  pinch  him  to 
see  if  he  can  cry." 

She  sat  absorbed  looking  at  the  baby ;  and  she  was 
so  beautiful  and  so  intensely  real  at  that  moment  that 
Ned  began  to  forget  that  she  had  given  the  child  out 
to  nurse  because  the  priest  had  told  her  that  she  might 
do  so  without  sin. 

"  I  called  him  after  you,  Ned.  It  was  Father  Staf- 
ford who  baptised  him." 

"  So  he  has  been  baptised !" 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  He  was  not  three  days  old  when  he  was  baptised." 

"  Of  course.  He  could  not  have  gone  to  heaven  if 
he  had  not  been  baptised." 

"  Ned,  I  don't  think  it  kind  of  you  to  say  these  things 
to  me.  You  never  used  to  say  them." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Ellen ;  I'll  say  no  more,  and  I'm  glad 
it  was  Father  Stafford  who  baptised  him.  He  is  the 
most  sensible  priest  we  have.  If  all  the  clergy  were 
like  him  I  should  find  it  easier  to  believe." 

"  But  religion  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  clergy.  It 
is  quite  possible  to  think  the  clergy  foolish  and  yet  to 
believe  that  the  religion  is  the  true  one." 

"  I  like  the  clergy  far  better  than  their  religion,  and 
believe  them  to  be  worthy  of  a  better  one.  I  like  Father 
Stafford,  and  you  like  having  a  priest  to  dinner.  Let 
us  ask  him." 

"  I'm  afraid,  Ned,  that  Father  Stafford  is  getting 
old.  He  rarely  leaves  the  house  now  and  Father 
Maguire  does  all  the  work  of  the  parish." 

She  liked  clerical  gossip;  the  church  was  finished, 
and  how  Biddy  heard  the  saints  singing  in  the  window 
made  a  fine  tale. 

"  So  now  we  have  a  local  saint." 

"  Yes,  and  miracles !" 

"  But  do  you  believe  in  miracles  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  shouldn't  like  to  say.  One  is  not 
obliged  to  believe  in  them." 

"  I'm  sure  you  would  enjoy  believing  in  Biddy." 

"  Oh,  Ned,  how  aggressive  you  are,  and  the  very  day 
you  come  back." 

But  why  hadn't  she  asked  him  about  America  and 
about  his  speeches?  He  had  looked  forward  to  telling 
her  about  them.  She  seemed  to  care  nothing  about 

312 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

them;  even  when  she  spoke  about  them  after  dinner, 
he  could  see  that  she  was  not  as  much  interested  in 
politics  as  she  used  to  be.  However,  she  wore  a  white 
dress  and  black  stockings;  her  red  hair  was  charm- 
ingly pinned  up  with  a  tortoise-shell  comb,  and  taking 
her  upon  his  knee  he  thought  it  would  be  well  to  please 
himself  with  her  as  she  was  and  forget  what  she  was 
not. 

Next  morning  when  he  picked  up  the  newspaper  and 
the  daily  instalment  of  a  cardinal's  tour  through  Ire- 
land caught  his  eye,  he  remembered  that  Ellen  had 
sent  for  a  theologian.  .  .  .  His  eyes  went  down  the 
columns  of  the  newspaper  and  he  said,  "  All  the  old 
flummery.  Ireland's  fidelity  to  her  religion,  etc.,  her 
devotion  to  Rome,  etc., — to  everything,"  he  said,  "  ex- 
cept herself.  Propagations  of  the  faith,  exhortations 
to  do  as  our  ancestors  had  done,  to  do  everything 
except  make  life  joyous  and  triumphant."  Looking 
across  the  page  his  eye  was  caught  by  the  headline, 
"  Profession  of  Irish  Nuns  in  France."  Further  on  in 
large  letters,  "  Killmessan  Cathedral :  Bazaar."  And 
these  items  of  news  were  followed  by  a  letter  from  a 
Bishop.  "  What  a  lot  of  Bishops !"  he  said.  He  read 
of  "  worthy"  parish  priests,  and  a  little  further  on  of 
"  brilliant"  young  clergymen,  and  at  every  meeting  the 
chair  was  taken  by  the  "  worthy"  or  by  the  "  good" 
parish  priest. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  the  newspaper  reflects  the  mind 
of  the  people  there  is  no  hope." 

And  he  heard  daily  of  new  churches  and  new  con- 
vents and  the  acquisition  of  property  by  the  clergy.  He 
heard  tales  of  esuriency  and  avarice,  and  the  persecu- 
tion of  the  dancing-girl  and  the  piper. 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

"  The  clergy,"  he  said,  "  are  swallowing  up  the  coun- 
try," and  he  looked  for  some  means  whereby  he  might 
save  the  Gael. 

About  this  time  an  outcry  was  made  against  the 
ugliness  of  modern  ecclesiastical  architecture,  and  a 
number  of  enthusiasts  were  writing  to  the  newspapers 
proposing  a  revival  of  Irish  romanesque;  they  in- 
stanced Cormac's  Chapel  as  the  model  that  should  be 
followed.  Ned  joined  in  the  outcry  that  no  more 
stained  glass  should  be  imported  from  Birmingham, 
and  wrote  to  the  newspapers  many  times  that  good 
sculpture  and  good  painting  and  good  glass  were  more 
likely  to  produce  a  religious  fervour  than  bad.  His 
purpose  was  to  point  a  finger  of  scorn  at  the  churches, 
and  he  hoped  to  plead  a  little  later  that  there  were  too 
many  churches,  and  that  no  more  should  be  built  until 
the  population  had  begun  to  increase  again.  He  looked 
forward  to  the  time  when  he  would  be  able  to  say  right 
out  that  the  Gael  had  spent  enough  of  money  on  his 
soul,  and  should  spend  what  remained  to  him  on  his 
body.  He  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  he  should 
tell  the  Gael  that  his  soul  was  his  greatest  expense,  but 
the  time  was  far  off  when  he  could  speak  plainly. 

The  clergy  were  prepared  to  admit  that  German  glass 
was  not  necessary  for  their  successful  mediation,  but 
they  were  stubborn  when  Ned  asked  them  to  agree  that 
no  more  churches  were  necessary.  They  were  not 
moved  by  the  argument  that  the  population  was  de- 
clining and  would  not  admit  that  there  were  too  many 
churches  or  even  that  there  were  churches  enough. 
The  ecclesiastical  mind  is  a  subtle  one  and  it  knows  that 
when  men  cease  to  build  churches  they  cease  to  be 
religious.  The  instinct  of  the  clergy  was  against  Ned, 

3i4 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

but  they  had  to  make  concessions,  for  the  country  was 
awakening  to  its  danger,  and  Ned  began  to  think  that 
all  its  remaining  energies  were  being  concentrated  in 
an  effort  to  escape. 

Long  years  ago  in  America  he  had  watched  a  small 
snake  trying  to  swallow  a  frog.  The  snake  sucked 
down  the  frog,  and  the  frog  seemed  to  acquiesce  until 
the  half  of  his  body  was  down  the  snake's  gullet,  and 
then  the  frog  bestirred  himself  and  succeeded  in 
escaping.  The  snake  rested  awhile  and  the  next  day 
he  renewed  his  attack.  At  last  the  day  came  when  the 
weary  frog  delayed  too  long  and  Ned  watched  him  dis- 
appear down  the  snake's  gullet. 

A  good  deal  of  Ireland  was  down  the  clerical  throat 
and  all  would  go  down  if  Ireland  did  not  bestir  herself. 
Ireland  was  weakening  daily,  and  every  part  of  her 
that  disappeared  made  it  more  difficult  for  her  to  extri- 
cate herself.  Ned  remembered  that  life  and  death, 
sickness  and  health,  success  and  failure,  are  merely 
questions  of  balance.  A  nation  is  successful  when  its 
forces  are  at  balance,  and  nations  rise  and  fall  because 
the  centre  of  gravity  shifts.  A  single  Spaniard  is  as 
good  as  a  single  German,  but  the  centre  of  gravity  is 
in  Spain  no  longer. 

Ned  did  not  look  upon  religion  as  an  evil ;  he  knew 
religion  to  be  necessary;  but  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  balance  had  been  tilted  in  Ireland. 

He  threw  himself  more  and  more  into  the  education 
of  the  people,  and  politics  became  his  chief  interest. 
At  last  he  had  begun  to  live  for  his  idea,  and  long 
absence  from  home  and  long  drives  on  outside  cars  and 
evenings  spent  in  inn  parlours  were  accepted  without 
murmurings ;  these  discomforts  were  no  longer  per- 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

ceived,  whereas  when  he  and  Ellen  used  to  sit  over  the 
fire  composing  speeches  together,  the  thought  of  them 
filled  him  with  despair.  He  used  to  complain  that 
Ellen  was  always  sending  him  away  from  home  and 
to  hard  mutton  shops  and  dirty  bedrooms.  He  re- 
minded her  no  more  of  these  discomforts.  He  came 
back  and  spent  a  day  or  two  with  her,  and  went  away 
again.  She  had  begun  to  notice  that  he  did  not  seem 
sorry  to  leave,  but  she  did  not  reproach  him,  because  he 
said  he  was  working  for  Ireland.  He  tried  to  think 
the  explanation  a  sufficient  one.  Did  he  not  love  his 
home?  His  home  was  a  delightful  relaxation.  The 
moment  he  crossed  the  threshold  his  ideas  went  behind 
him  and  in  the  hour  before  dinner  he  played  with  his 
child  and  talked  to  Ellen  about  the  house  and  the 
garden  and  the  things  he  thought  she  was  most  inter- 
ested in.  After  dinner  she  read  or  sewed  and  he  spent 
an  hour  at  the  piano,  and  then  he  took  her  on  his 
knees. 

And  sometimes  in  the  morning  as  he  walked,  with 
Ellen  at  his  side,  to  catch  the  train,  he  wondered  at  his 
good  fortune — the  road  was  so  pleasant,  so  wide  and 
smooth  and  shaded,  in  fact  just  as  he  imagined  the 
road  should  be,  and  Ellen  was  the  very  pleasantest 
companion  a  man  could  wish  for.  He  looked  on  her, 
on  his  child  and  his  house  at  the  foot  of  the  Dublin 
mountains,  as  a  little  work  of  art  which  he  had  planned 
out  and  the  perfection  of  which  entitled  him  to  some 
credit.  He  compared  himself  to  one  who  visits  a  larder, 
who  has  a  little  snack  of  something,  and  then  puts 
down  the  cover,  saying,  "  Now  that's  all  right,  that's 
safe  for  another  week." 

Nevertheless  he  could  see  a  little  shadow  gathering. 
316 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

His  speeches  were  growing  more  explicit,  and  sooner 
or  later  his  wife  would  begin  to  notice  that  he  was 
attacking  the  clergy.  Had  she  no  suspicion  ?  She  was 
by  nature  so  self-restrained  that  it  was  impossible  to 
tell.  He  knew  she  read  his  speeches,  and  if  she 
read  them  she  must  have  noticed  their  anti-clerical 
tone. 

Last  Saturday  he  had  spoken  to  her  about  politics, 
but  she  had  allowed  the  conversation  to  drop,  and  that 
had  puzzled  him.  He  was  not  well  reported.  The  most 
important  parts  of  his  speech  were  omitted  and  for 
these  omissions  he  looked  upon  the  reporters  and  the 
editors  as  his  best  friends.  He  had  managed  to  steer 
his  way  very  adroitly  up  to  the  present,  but  the  day 
of  reckoning  could  not  much  longer  be  postponed ;  and 
one  day  coming  home  from  a  great  meeting  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  said  more  than  he  intended  to  say, 
though  he  had  intended  to  say  a  good  deal.  This  time 
the  reporter  could  not  save  him,  and  when  his  wife 
would  read  the  newspaper  to-morrow  an  explanation 
could  hardly  be  avoided. 

He  had  thrown  a  book  on  the  seat  opposite,  and  he 
put  it  into  his  bag.  Its  Nihilism  had  frightened  him  at 
first,  but  he  had  returned  to  the  book  again  and  again 
and  every  time  the  attraction  had  become  stronger. 
The  train  passed  the  signal  box,  and  Ned  was  thinking 
of  the  aphorisms — the  new  Gospel  was  written  in 
aphorisms  varying  from  three  to  twenty  lines  in  length 
— and  he  thought  of  these  as  meat  lozenges  each  con- 
taining enough  nutriment  to  make  a  gallon  of  weak 
soup  suitable  for  invalids,  and  of  himself  as  a  sort  of 
illicit  dispensary. 

Ellen  was  not  on  the  platform;    something  had  de- 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

layed  her,  and  he  could  see  the  road  winding  under 
trees,  and  presently  he  saw  her  white  summer  dress 
and  her  parasol  aslant.  There  was  no  prettier,  no  more 
agreeable  woman  than  Ellen  in  Ireland,  and  he  thought 
it  a  great  pity  to  have  to  worry  her  and  himself  with 
explanations  about  politics  and  about  religion.  To 
know  how  to  sacrifice  the  moment  is  wisdom,  and  it 
would  be  better  to  sacrifice  their  walk  than  that  she 
should  read  unprepared  what  he  had  said.  But  the 
evening  would  be  lost !  It  would  be  lost  in  any  case, 
for  his  thoughts  would  be  running  all  the  while  on 
the  morning  paper. 

And  they  walked  on  together,  he  a  little  more  silent 
than  usual,  for  he  was  thinking  how  he  could  introduce 
the  subject  on  which  he  had  decided  to  speak  to  her, 
and  Ellen  more  talkative,  for  she  was  telling  how  the 
child  had  delayed  her,  and  it  was  not  until  they  reached 
the  prettiest  part  of  the  road  that  she  noticed  that  Ned 
was  answering  perfunctorily. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear?  I  hope  you  are  not  dis- 
appointed with  the  meeting?" 

"  No,  the  meeting  was  well  enough.  There  were  a 
great  number  of  people  present  and  my  speech  was  well 
received." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  said,  "  but  what  is  the 
matter,  Ned?" 

"  Nothing.  I  was  thinking  about  my  speech.  I  hope 
it  will  not  be  misunderstood.  People  are  so  stupid,  and 
some  will  understand  it  as  an  attack  on  the  clergy, 
whereas  it  is  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  if  it  isn't  it  will  be  different  from 
your  other  speeches." 

"How  is  that?" 

318 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  All  your  speeches  lately  have  been  an  attack  upon 
the  clergy  direct  or  indirect.  I  daresay  many  did  not 
understand  them,  but  anyone  who  knows  your  opinions 
can  read  between  the  lines." 

"  If  you  had  read  between  the  lines,  Ellen,  you  would 
have  seen  that  I  have  been  trying  to  save  the  clergy 
from  themselves.  They  are  so  convinced  of  their  own 
importance  that  they  forget  that  after  all  there  must 
be  a  laity." 

Ellen  answered  very  quietly,  and  there  was  a  sadness 
in  her  gravity  which  Ned  had  some  difficulty  in  appre- 
ciating. He  went  on  talking,  telling  her  that  some 
prelate  had  pointed  out  lately,  and  with  approbation, 
that  although  the  population  had  declined  the  clergy 
had  been  increasing  steadily  year  after  year. 

"  I  am  really,"  he  said,  "  trying  to  save  them  from 
themselves.  I  am  only  pleading  for  the  harmless  and 
the  necessary  laity." 

Ellen  did  not  answer  him  for  a  long  while. 

"  You  see,  Ned,  I  am  hardly  more  to  you  now  than 
any  other  woman.  You  come  here  occasionally  to 
spend  a  day  or  two  with  me.  Our  married  life  has 
dwindled  down  to  that.  You  play  with  the  baby  and 
you  play  with  the  piano,  and  you  write  your  letters. 
I  don't  know  what  you  are  writing  in  them.  You  never 
speak  to  me  of  your  ideas  now.  I  know  nothing  of 
your  politics." 

"  I  haven't  spoken  about  politics  much  lately,  Ellen, 
because  I  thought  you  had  lost  interest  in  them." 

"  I  have  lost  interest  in  nothing  that  concerns  you. 
I  have  not  spoken  to  you  about  politics  because  I  know 
quite  well  that  my  ideas  don't  interest  you  any  longer. 
You're  absorbed  in  your  own  ideas,  and  we're  divided. 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

You  sleep  now  in  the  spare  room,  so  that  you  may 
have  time  to  prepare  your  speeches." 

"  But  I  sometimes  come  to  see  you  in  your  room, 
Ellen." 

"  Sometimes,"  she  said,  sadly,  "  but  that  is  not  my 
idea  of  marriage,  nor  is  it  the  custom  of  the  country, 
nor  is  it  what  the  Church  wishes." 

"  I  think,  Ellen,  you  are  very  unreasonable,  and  you 
are  generally  so  reasonable." 

"  Well,  don't  let  us  argue  any  more,"  she  said.  "  We 
shall  never  agree,  I'm  afraid." 

Ned  remembered  that  he  once  used  to  say  to  her, 
"  Ellen,  we  are  agreed  in  everything." 

"  If  I  had  only  known  that  it  was  going  to  turn  out 
so  disagreeable  as  this,"  Ned  said  to  himself,  "  I  should 
have  held  my  tongue,"  and  he  was  sorry  for  having 
displeased  Ellen,  so  pretty  did  she  look  in  her  white 
dress  and  her  hat  trimmed  with  china  roses ;  and 
though  he  did  not  care  much  for  flowers  he  liked  to 
see  Ellen  among  her  flowers ;  he  liked  to  sit  with  her 
under  the  shady  apple-tree,  and  the  hollyhocks  were 
making  a  fine  show  up  in  the  air. 

"  I  think  I  like  the  hollyhocks  better  than  any  flowers, 
and  the  sunflowers  are  coming  out,"  he  said. 

He  hesitated  whether  he  should  speak  about  the 
swallows,  Ellen  did  not  care  for  birds.  The  swallows 
rushed  round  the  garden  in  groups  of  six  and  seven 
filling  the  air  with  piercing  shrieks.  He  had  never 
seen  them  so  restless.  He  and  Ellen  walked  across  the 
sward  to  their  seat  and  then  Ellen  asked  him  if  he 
would  like  to  see  the  child. 

"  I've  kept  him  out  of  bed  and  thought  you  might 
like  to  see  him." 

320 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  go  fetch  the  baby  and  I  will  shake 
the  boughs,  and  it  will  amuse  him  to  run  after  the 
apples." 

"  Differences  of  opinion  arise,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  for  the  mind  changes  and  desire  wanes,  but  the  heart 
is  always  the  same,  and  what  an  extraordinary  bond 
the  child  is,"  he  said,  seeing  Ellen  leading  the  child 
across  the  sward.  He  forgot  Ireland,  forgot  priests, 
and  forgot  politics,  forgot  everything.  He  lifted  his 
little  son  in  his  arms  and  shook  the  boughs  and  saw 
the  child  run  after  the  falling  apples,  stumbling  and 
falling  but  never  hurting  himself. 

The  quarrels  of  the  day  died  down;  the  evening 
grew  more  beautiful  under  the  boughs,  and  this  inti- 
mate life  round  their  apple-tree  was  strangely  intense, 
and  it  grew  more  and  more  intense  as  the  light  died. 
Every  now  and  then  the  child  came  to  show  them  an 
apple  he  had  picked  up,  and  Ned  said :  "  He  thinks  he 
has  found  the  largest  apples  that  have  ever  been  seen." 
The  secret  of  their  lives  seemed  to  approach  and  at 
every  moment  they  expected  to  hear  it.  The  tired  child 
came  to  his  mother  and  asked  to  be  taken  on  her  lap. 
An  apple  fell  with  a  thud,  the  stars  came  out,  and 
Ned  carried  his  son,  now  half  asleep,  into  the  house, 
and  they  undressed  him  together,  having  forgotten, 
seemingly,  their  differences  of  opinion. 

But  after  dinner  when  they  were  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room their  relations  grew  strained  again.  Ned 
wanted  to  explain  to  Ellen  that  his  movement  was 
not  anti-clerical,  but  he  could  see  she  did  not  wish  to 
hear.  He  watched  her  take  up  her  work  and  wondered 
what  he  could  say  to  persuade  her,  and  after  a  little 
while  he  began  to  think  of  certain  pieces  of  music. 

21  321 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

But  to  go  to  the  piano  would  be  like  a  hostile  act.  The 
truth  was  that  he  had  looked  forward  to  the  evening 
he  was  going  to  spend  with  her,  he  had  imagined  an 
ideal  evening  with  her  and  could  not  reconcile  himself 
to  the  loss.  "  The  hour  we  passed  in  the  garden  was 
extraordinarily  intense,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  he 
regretted  ever  having  talked  to  her  about  anything  ex- 
cept simple  things.  "  It  is  unwise  of  a  man  to  make  a 
comrade  of  his  wife.  .  .  .  Now  I  wonder  if  she  would 
be  angry  with  me  if  I  went  to  the  piano — if  I  were  to 
play  something  very  gently?  Perhaps  a  book  would 
seem  less  aggressive."  He  went  into  his  study  and 
fetched  his  book,  and  very  soon  forgot  Ellen.  But  she 
had  not  forgotten  him,  and  she  raised  her  eyes  to  look 
at  him  from  time  to  time,  knowing  quite  well  that  he 
was  reading  the  book  out  of  which  he  drew  the  greater 
part  of  his  doctrine  that  he  had  alluded  to  on  his  way 
home,  and  that  he  had  called  the  Gospel  of  Life. 

He  turned  the  pages,  and  seeing  that  his  love  of  her 
had  been  absorbed  by  the  book,  she  stuck  her  needle  in 
her  work,  folded  it  up,  and  put  it  into  the  work-basket. 

"  I  am  going  to  bed,  Ned."  He  looked  up,  and  she 
saw  he  had  returned  from  a  world  that  was  unknown 
to  her,  a  world  in  which  she  had  no  part,  and  did  not 
want  to  have  a  part,  knowing  it  to  be  wicked.  "  You 
have  been  reading  all  the  evening.  You  prefer  your 
book  to  me.  Good-night." 

She  had  never  spoken  to  him  so  rudely  before.  He 
wondered  awhile  and  went  to  the  piano.  She  had  gone 
out  of  the  room  very  rudely.  Now  he  was  free  to  do 
what  he  liked,  and  what  he  liked  most  was  to  play  Bach. 
The  sound  of  the  piano  would  reach  her  bedroom! 
Well,  if  it  did — he  had  not  played  Bach  for  four  weeks 

322 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

and  he  wanted  to  play  Bach.  Yes,  he  was  playing  Bach 
to  please  himself.  He  knew  the  piano  would  annoy 
her.  And  he  was  right. 

She  had  just  lighted  the  candles  on  her  dressing- 
table,  and  she  paused  and  listened.  It  annoyed  her  that 
he  should  go  to  the  piano  the  moment  she  left  him, 
and  that  he  should  play  dry  intellectual  Bach,  for  he 
knew  that  Bach  did  not  interest  her.  She  was  tempted 
to  ring  for  her  maid,  and  would  have  sent  down  word 
to  Ned  that  she  would  be  obliged  if  he  would  stop 
playing,  had  it  not  seemed  undignified  to  do  so. 

As  she  undressed  she  lost  control  over  herself,  and 
lying  in  bed  it  seemed  to  her  that  Ned  had  hidden  him- 
self in  a  veil  of  kindness  and  good  humour,  and  that 
the  man  she  had  married  was  a  man  without  moral 
qualities,  a  man  who  would  leave  her  without  resent- 
ment, without  disgust,  who  would  say  good-by  to  her 
as  to  some  brief  habit.  She  could  hear  Bach's  inter- 
minable twiddles,  and  this  exasperated  her  nerves  and 
she  wept  through  many  preludes  and  fugues.  Later 
on  she  must  have  heard  the  fugues  in  a  dream,  for  the 
door  opened;  it  passed  over  the  carpet  softly;  and 
she  heard  Ned  saying  that  he  hoped  the  piano  had  not 
kept  her  awake.  She  heard  him  lay  the  candle  on  the 
table  and  come  over  to  her  bedside,  and,  leaning  over 
her,  he  begged  of  her  to  turn  round  and  speak  to  him. 

"  My  poor  little  woman,  I  hope  I  have  not  been  cross 
with  you  this  evening." 

She  turned  away  petulantly,  but  he  took  her  hand 
and  held  it  and  whispered  to  her,  and  gradually  tempted 
her  out  of  her  anger,  and  taking  some  of  her  red  hair 
from  the  pillow  he  kissed  it.  She  still  kept  her  head 
turned  from  him,  but  she  could  not  keep  back  her 

323 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

happiness ;  it  followed  her  like  fire,  enfolding  her,  and 
at  last,  raising  herself  up  in  the  bed,  she  said: — 

"  Oh,  Ned,  do  you  still  love  me?" 

When  he  came  into  her  bed  she  slipped  down  so  that 
she  could  lie  upon  his  breast,  and  they  fell  asleep  think- 
ing of  the  early  train  he  would  have  to  catch  in  the 
morning. 

He  was  going  to  Dublin,  and  the  servant  knocked  at 
the  door  at  seven  o'clock;  Ellen  roused  a  little  asking 
if  he  must  go  to  Dublin.  She  would  like  him  to  stay 
with  her.  But  he  could  not  stay,  and  she  felt  she  must 
give  him  his  breakfast.  While  tying  her  petticoats  she 
went  to  the  door  of  Ned's  dressing-room  asking  him 
questions,  for  she  liked  to  talk  to  him  while  he  was 
shaving.  After  breakfast  they  walked  to  the  station 
together,  and  she  stood  on  the  platform  smiling  and 
waving  farewells. 

She  turned  home,  her  thoughts  chattering  like  the 
sunshine  among  the  trees;  she  leaned  over  the  low, 
crumbling  walls  and  looked  across  the  water  meadows. 
Two  women  were  spending  the  morning  under  the 
trees ;  they  were  sewing.  A  man  was  lying  at  length 
talking  to  them.  This  group  was  part  of  external 
nature.  The  bewitching  sunlight  found  a  way  into  her 
heart,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  never  be 
happy  again. 

Ned  had  told  her  that  he  was  not  going  to  say  any- 
thing about  the  priests  at  this  meeting.  Ah,  if  she 
were  only  sure  he  would  not  attack  religion  she  would 
not  mind  him  criticising  the  priests.  They  were  not 
above  cyiticism;  they  courted  criticism,  approving  of 
a  certain  amount  of  lay  criticism.  But  it  was  not  the 
priests  that  Ned  hated ;  it  was  religion ;  and  his  hatred 

324 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

of  religion  had  increased  since  he  began  to  read  those 
books — she  had  seen  him  put  one  into  his  bag,  and  the 
rest  of  the  set  were  in  his  study.  When  she  got  home 
she  paused  a  moment,  and,  without  knowing  exactly 
why,  she  turned  aside  and  did  not  go  into  his  study. 

But  next  day  the  clock  in  the  drawing-room  stopped, 
and,  wanting  to  know  the  time,  she  went  into  the  study 
and  looked  at  the  clock,  trying  to  keep  her  eyes  from 
the  bookcase.  But  in  spite  of  herself  she  looked.  The 
books  were  there:  they  had  been  thrust  so  far  back 
that  she  could  not  read  the  name  of  the  writer.  Well, 
it  did  not  matter,  she  did  not  care  to  know  the  name 
of  the  writer — Ned's  room  interested  her  more  than 
the  books.  There  was  his  table  covered  with  his 
papers ;  and  the  thought  passed  through  her  mind  that 
he  might  be  writing  the  book  he  had  promised  her  not 
to  write.  What  he  was  writing  was  certainly  for  the 
printer — he  was  writing  only  on  one  side  of  the  paper 
— and  one  of  these  days  what  he  was  writing  would 
be  printed. 

The  study  was  on  the  ground  floor,  its  windows 
overlooking  the  garden,  and  she  glanced  to  see  if  the 
gardener  were  by,  but  her  wish  to  avoid  observation 
reminded  her  that  she  was  doing  a  dishonourable 
action,  and,  standing  with  the  papers  in  her  hand,  she 
hoped  she  would  go  out  of  the  study  without  reading 
them.  She  began  to  read. 

The  papers  in  her  hand  were  his  notes  for  the  book 
he  was  writing,  and  the  title  caught  her  eye,  "  A  West- 
ern Thibet."  "  So  he  is  writing  the  book  he  promised 
me  not  to  write,"  she  said.  But  she  could  feel  no 
anger,  so  conscious  was  she  of  her  own  shame.  And 
she  did  not  forget  her  shame  until  she  remembered 

325 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

that  it  was  her  money  that  was  supporting  the  agita- 
tion. He  had  been  spending  a  great  deal  of  money 
lately — they  were  rich  now;  her  father  had  died  soon 
after  their  marriage  and  all  his  money  had  come  to 
her,  and  Ned  was  spending  it  on  an  anti-religious  agi- 
tation. She  had  let  Ned  do  what  he  liked;  she  had 
not  cared  what  happened  so  long  as  she  kept  his  love, 
and  her  moral  responsibility  became  clearer  and  clearer. 
She  must  tell  Ned  that  she  could  give  him  no  more 
money  unless  he  promised  he  would  not  say  anything 
against  the  priests.  He  would  make  no  such  promise, 
and  to  speak  about  her  money  would  exhibit  her  in  a 
mean  light,  and  she  would  lose  all  her  influence.  Now 
that  they  were  reconciled  she  might  win  him  back  to 
religion;  she  had  been  thinking  of  this  all  yesterday. 
How  could  she  tell  him  that  she  would  take  all  her 
money  away  from  him?  Ned  was  the  last  person  in 
the  world  who  would  be  influenced  by  a  threat. 

And  looking  round  the  room  she  asked  herself  why 
she  had  ever  come  into  it  to  commit  a  dishonourable 
act!  and  much  trouble  had  come  upon  her.  But  two 
thousand  a  year  of  her  money  was  being  spent  in  rob- 
bing the  people  of  Ireland  of  their  religion!  Maybe 
thousands  of  souls  would  be  lost  —  and  through  her 
fault. 

Ellen  feared  money  as  much  as  her  father  had  loved 
it. 

"  Good  Heavens,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "  what 
am  I  to  do?"  Confession.  .  .  .  Father  Brennan.  She 
must  consult  him.  The  temptation  to  confide  her  secret 
became  more  decisive.  Confession !  She  could  ask 
the  priest  what  she  liked  in  confession,  and  without 
betraying  Ned.  And  it  was  not  ten  o'clock  yet.  She 

326 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

would  be  in  time  for  eleven  o'clock  Mass.  Father 
Brennan  would  be  hearing  confessions  after  Mass,  and 
she  could  get  to  Dublin  on  her  bicycle  in  an  hour.  In 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  she  was  at  the  presbytery, 
and  before  the  attendant  could  answer  she  caught  sight 
of  Father  Brennan  running  down-stairs. 

"  I  only  want  to  speak  to  you  for  a  few  minutes." 
"  I  am  just  going  into  church." 
"  Can't  I  say  a  word  to  you  before  you  go  in  ?" 
And  seeing  how  greatly  agitated  she  was,  he  took 
her  into  the  parlour,  and  she  told  him  that  though  she 
trusted  him  implicitly  she  could  not  consult  him  on 
this  particular  question  except  in  the  confessional. 
"  I  shall  be  hearing  confessions  after  Mass." 
If  the  priest  told  her  she  must  withdraw  her  money 
from  Ned,  her  marriage  was  a  broken  one.  It  was 
she  who  had  brought  Ned  into  politics ;  she  had  often 
spoken  of  her  money  in  order  to  induce  him  to  go  into 
politics,  and  now  it  was  her  money  that  was  forcing 
her  to  betray  him.  She  had  not  thought  of  confession 
in  her  present  difficulty  as  a  betrayal,  but  it  was  one, 
and  a  needless  one;  Father  Brennan  could  only  tell 
her  to  withdraw  her  money ;  yet  she  must  consult  the 
priest — nothing  else  would  satisfy  her.  She  lacked 
courage:  his  advice  would  give  her  courage.  But 
when  she  had  told  Ned  that  she  could  give  him  no 
more  money,  she  would  have  to  tell  him  she  was  acting 
on  the  priest's  advice,  for  she  could  not  go  on  living 
with  him  and  not  tell  him  everything.  A  secret  would 
poison  her  life,  and  she  had  no  difficulty  in  imagining 
how  she  would  remember  it ;  she  could  see  it  stopping 
her  suddenly  as  she  crossed  the  room  when  she  was 
thinking  of  something  quite  different.  The  hardest 

327 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

confession  of  all  would  be  to  tell  Ned  that  she  had 
consulted  the  priest,  and  she  did  not  think  he  would 
ever  love  her  again.  But  what  matter,  so  long  as  she 
was  not  weak  and  contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  God. 
That  is  what  she  had  to  think  of.  The  love  of  one's 
husband  is  of  this  world  and  temporary,  but  the  love  of 
God  is  for  all  eternity.  All  things  are  in  the  will  of 
God.  It  was  God  that  had  sent  her  into  Ned's  room. 
She  had  been  compelled,  and  now  she  was  compelled 
again.  It  was  God  that  had  sent  her  to  the  priest ;  she 
was  a  mere  puppet  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  she  prayed 
that  she  might  be  reconciled  to  His  will,  only  daring 
to  implore  His  mercy  with  one  "  Our  Father"  and  one 
"  Hail  Mary."  Further  imploration  would  be  out  of 
place,  she  must  not  insist  too  much.  God  was  all  wis- 
dom, and  would  know  if  the  love  of  her  husband  might 
be  spared  to  her,  and  she  hoped  she  would  be  recon- 
ciled to  His  will  even  if  her  child  should  be  taken 
from  her. 

There  were  two  penitents  before  her.  One  a  woman, 
faded  by  time  and  deformed  by  work.  From  the  black 
dress,  come  down  to  her  through  a  succession  of  owners 
and  now  as  nondescript  as  herself,  Ellen  guessed  the 
woman  to  be  one  of  the  humblest  class  of  servants,  one 
of  those  who  get  their  living  by  going  out  to  work  by 
the  day.  She  leaned  over  the  bench,  and  Ellen  could 
see  she  was  praying  all  the  while,  and  Ellen  wondered 
how  Ned  could  expect  this  poor  woman,  earning  a 
humble  wage  in  humble  service,  to  cultivate  what  he 
called  "  the  virtue  of  pride."  Was  it  not  absurd  to 
expect  this  poor  woman  to  go  through  life  trying  to 
make  life  "  exuberant  and  triumphant"  ?  And  Ellen 
wished  she  could  show  Ned  this  poor  woman  waiting 

328 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

to  go  into  the  confessional.  In  the  confessional  she 
would  find  a  refined  and  learned  man  to  listen  to  her, 
and  he  would  have  patience  with  her.  Where  else 
would  she  find  a  patient  listener?  Where  else  would 
she  find  consolation  ?  "  The  Gospel  of  Life,"  indeed ! 
How  many  may  listen  to  the  gospel  of  life,  and  for 
how  long  may  anyone  listen?  Sooner  or  later  we  are 
that  poor  woman  waiting  to  go  into  the  confessional; 
she  is  the  common  humanity. 

The  other  penitent  was  a  girl  about  sixteen.  Her 
hair  was  not  yet  pinned  up,  and  her  dress  was  girlish 
even  for  her  age,  and  Ellen  judged  her  to  be  one  of  the 
many  girls  who  come  up  to  Dublin  from  the  suburbs 
to  an  employment  in  a  shop  or  in  a  lawyer's  office,  and 
who  spend  a  few  pence  in  the  middle  of  the  day  in 
tea-rooms.  The  girl  looked  round  the  church  so  fre- 
quently that  Ellen  could  not  think  of  her  as  a  willing 
penitent,  but  as  one  who  had  been  sent  to  confession 
by  her  father  and  mother.  At  her  age  sensuality  is 
omnipresent,  and  Ellen  thought  of  the  check  confession 
is  at  such  an  age.  If  that  girl  overstepped  the  line  she 
would  have  to  confess  everything,  or  face  the  frightful 
danger  of  a  bad  confession,  and  that  is  a  danger  that 
few  Catholic  girls  are  prepared  to  face. 

The  charwoman  spent  a  long  time  in  the  confes- 
sional, and  Ellen  did  not  begrudge  her  the  time  she 
spent,  for  she  came  out  like  one  greatly  soothed,  and 
Ellen  remembered  that  Ned  had  once  described  the 
soothed  look  which  she  noticed  on  the  poor  woman's 
face  as  "  a  look  of  foolish  ecstasy,  wholly  divorced 
from  the  intelligence."  But  what  intellectual  ecstasy 
did  he  expect  from  this  poor  woman  drifting  towards 
her  natural  harbour — the  poor-house  ? 

329 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

It  was  extraordinary  that  a  man  so  human  as  Ned 
was  in  many  ways  should  become  so  inhuman  the 
moment  religion  was  mentioned,  and  she  wondered  if 
the  sight  of  that  poor  woman  leaving  the  confessional 
would  allay  his  hatred  of  the  sacrament.  At  that 
moment  the  young  girl  came  out.  She  hurried  away, 
and  Ellen  went  into  the  confessional  to  betray  her 
husband. 

She  was  going  to  betray  Ned,  but  she  was  going  to 
betray  him  under  the  seal  of  confession,  and  enter- 
tained no  thought  that  the  priest  would  avail  himself 
of  any  technicality  in  her  confession  to  betray  her.  She 
was,  nevertheless,  determined  that  her  confession 
should  be  technically  perfect.  She  went  into  the  con- 
fessional to  confess  her  sins,  and  one  of  the  sins  she 
was  going  to  confess  was  her  culpable  negligence  re- 
garding the  application  of  her  money.  There  were 
other  sins.  She  had  examined  her  conscience,  and  had 
discovered  many  small  ones.  She  had  lost  her  temper 
last  night,  and  her  temper  had  prevented  her  from 
saying  her  prayers,  her  temper  and  her  love  of  Ned; 
for  it  were  certainly  a  sin  to  desire  anything  so  fervidly 
that  one  cannot  give  to  God  the  love,  the  prayers,  that 
belong  to  Him. 

During  Mass  the  life  of  her  soul  had  seemed  to  her 
strange  and  complex,  and  she  thought  that  her  confes- 
sion would  be  a  long  one;  but  on  her  knees  before 
the  priest  her  soul  seemed  to  vanish,  and  all  her  inter- 
esting scruples  and  phases  of  thought  dwindled  to 
almost  nothing — she  could  not  put  her  soul  into  words. 
The  priest  waited,  but  the  matter  on  which  she  had 
come  to  consult  him  had  put  everything  else  out  of 
her  head. 

330 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  I  am  not  certain  that  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
is  a  sin,  but  I  consider  it  as  part  of  my  confession," 
and  she  told  him  how  she  had  given  Ned  her  money 
and  allowed  him  to  apply  it  without  inquiring  into 
the  application.  "  Since  my  child  was  born  I  have 
not  taken  the  interest  I  used  to  take  in  politics.  I 
don't  think  my  husband  is  any  longer  interested  in 
my  ideas,  and  now  he  has  told  me  that  some  kind  of 
religious  reformation  is  necessary  in  Ireland." 

"  When  did  he  tell  you  that?" 

"  Yesterday — the  day  before.  I  went  to  the  station 
to  meet  him  and  he  told  me  as  we  walked  home.  For 
a  long  time  I  believed  him:  I  don't  mean  that  he 
told  me  falsehoods;  he  may  have  deceived  himself. 
Anyhow  he  used  to  tell  me  that  though  his  agitation 
might  be  described  as  anti-clerical  no  one  could  call  it 
anti-religious.  But  this  morning  something  led  me 
into  his  room  and  I  looked  through  his  papers.  I 
daresay  I  had  no  right  to  do  so,  but  I  did." 

"  And  you  discovered  from  his  papers  that  his  agi- 
tation was  directed  against  religion?" 

Ellen  nodded. 

"  I  cannot  think  of  anything  more  unfortunate," 
said  the  priest. 

Father  Brennan  was  a  little  fat  man  with  small  eyes 
and  a  punctilious  deferential  manner,  and  his  voice  was 
slightly  falsetto. 

"  I  cannot  understand  how  your  husband  can  be  so 
unwise.  I  know  very  little  of  him,  but  I  did  not  think 
he  was  capable  of  making  so  grave  a  mistake.  The 
country  is  striving  to  unite  itself,  and  we  have  been 
uniting,  and  now  that  we  have  a  united  Ireland,  or 
very  nearly,  it  appears  that  Mr.  Carmady  has  come 

33i 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

from  America  to  divide  us  again.  What  can  he  gain 
by  these  tactics?  If  he  tells  the  clergy  that  the  mo- 
ment Home  Rule  is  granted  an  anti-religious  party 
will  rise  up  and  drive  them  out  of  the  country,  he  will 
set  them  against  Home  Rule,  and  if  the  clergy  are 
not  in  favour  of  Home  Rule  who,  I  would  ask  Mr. 
Carmady,  who  will  be  in  favour  of  it?  And  I  will 
ask  you,  my  dear  child,  to  ask  him  —  I  suggest 
that  you  should  ask  him  to  what  quarter  he  looks  for 
support." 

"  Ned  and  I  never  talk  politics ;  we  used  to,  but 
that  is  a  long  time  ago." 

"  He  will  only  ruin  himself.  But  I  think  you  said 
you  came  to  consult  me  about  something." 

"  Yes.  You  see  a  very  large  part  of  my  money  is 
spent  in  politics  and  I  am  not  certain  that  I  should 
not  withdraw  my  money.  It  is  for  that  I  have  come 
to  consult  you." 

Ellen  had  been  addressing  the  little  outline  of  the 
priest's  profile,  but  when  he  heard  the  subject  on 
which  she  had  come  to  consult  him  he  turned  and  she 
saw  his  large  face,  round  and  mottled.  A  little  light 
gathered  in  his  wise  and  kindly  eyes,  and  Ellen  guessed 
that  he  had  begun  to  see  his  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty, and  she  was  glad  of  it,  for  she  reckoned  her 
responsibility  at  a  number  of  souls.  The  priest  spoke 
very  kindly,  he  seemed  to  understand  how  difficult  it 
would  be  for  her  to  tell  her  husband  that  she  could 
not  give  him  any  more  money  unless  he  promised  not 
to  attack  the  clergy  or  religion,  but  she  must  do  so. 
He  pointed  out  that  to  attack  one  was  to  attack  the 
other,  for  the  greater  mass  of  mankind  understands 
religion  only  through  the  clergy. 

332 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  You  must  not  only  withdraw  your  money,"  he  said, 
"  but  you  must  use  your  influence  to  dissuade  him." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Ellen,  "that  when  I  tell  him 
that  I  must  withdraw  my  money,  and  that  you  have 
told  me  to  do  so " 

"  You  need  not  say  that  I  told  you  to  do  so." 

"  I  cannot  keep  anything  back  from  my  husband. 
I  must  tell  him  the  whole  truth,"  she  said.  "  And 
when  I  tell  him  everything,  I  shall  not  only  lose  any 
influence  that  may  remain,  but  I  doubt  very  much  if 
my  husband  will  continue  to  live  with  me." 

"  But  your  marriage  was  a  love  marriage  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  that  is  a  long  time  ago.  It  is  four  years 
ago." 

"  I  don't  think  your  husband  will  separate  himself 
from  you,  but  even  so  I  think " 

"  You  will  give  me  absolution  ?" 

She  said  this  a  little  defiantly,  and  the  priest  won- 
dered, and  she  left  the  confessional  perplexed  and  a 
little  ashamed  and  very  much  terrified. 

There  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  in  Dublin,  she 
must  go  home  and  wait  for  her  husband.  He  was 
not  coming  home  until  evening,  and  she  rode  home 
wondering  how  the  day  would  pass,  thinking  the  best 
time  to  tell  him  would  be  after  dinner  when  he  left 
the  piano.  If  he  were  very  angry  with  her  she  would 
go  to  her  room.  He  would  not  go  on  living  with  her, 
she  was  sure  of  that,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still  when  she  entered  the  house  and  saw  the  study 
door  open  and  Ned  looking  through  the  papers. 

"  I  have  come  back  to  look  for  some  papers,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  very  annoying.  I  have  lost  half  the  day," 
and  he  went  on  looking  among  his  papers  and  she  could 

333 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

see  that  he  suspected  nothing.     "  Do  you  know  when 
is  the  next  train  ?" 

She  looked  out  the  trains  for  him,  and  after  he 
had  found  the  papers  he  wanted  they  went  into  the 
garden. 

She  talked  of  her  flowers  with  the  same  interest 
as  she  had  done  many  times  before,  and  when  he 
asked  her  to  go  for  a  walk  with  him  on  the  hill  she 
consented,  although  it  was  almost  unbearable  to  walk 
with  him  for  the  last  time  through  the  places  where 
they  had  walked  so  often,  thinking  that  their  lives 
would  move  on  to  the  end  unchanged ;  and  they  walked 
about  the  hill  talking  of  Irish  history,  their  eyes  often 
resting  on  the  slender  outlines  of  Howth,  until  it  was 
time  for  Ned  to  go  to  the  station. 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  time  for  dinner.  You  will  wait 
dinner  a  little  for  me,  I  may  have  to  come  back  by  a 
later  train." 

And  they  walked  down  the  hill  together,  Ned  bid- 
ding her  good-bye  at  the  garden  gate,  saying  she  had 
walked  enough  that  day,  and  she  feeling  the  moment 
was  at  hand. 

"  But,  Ned,  why  are  you  going  to  Dublin  ?  You 
are  only  going  to  see  people  who  are  anti-Catholic, 
who  hate  our  religion,  who  are  prejudiced  against  it." 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  why  do  you  talk  of  these  things. 
We  have  got  on  very  much  better  since  we  have  ceased 
to  discuss  politics  together.  We  are  agreed  in  every- 
thing else." 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  long  time  and  then  she 
said  :• — 

"  But  I  don't  see  how  we  are  to  avoid  discussing 
them,  for  it  is  my  money  that  supports  the  agitation." 

334 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  I  never  thought  of  that.  So  it  is.  Do  you  wish 
to  withdraw  it?" 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me,  Ned?  You  won't 
think  it  mean  of  me  to  withdraw  my  money?  How 
are  you  going  to  go  on  without  my  money?  You  see 
I  am  wrecking  your  political  career." 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  be  able  to  get  on  without 
it.  Now,  good-bye." 

"  May  I  go  to  the  station  with  you  ?" 

"  If  you  like,  only  let  us  talk  of  something  else. 
Everyone's  conscience  is  his  own  law  and  you  must 
act  accordingly." 

She  trotted  by  his  side,  and  she  begged  of  him  not 
to  laugh  at  her  when  he  said  that  to  be  truly  logical 
she  would  have  to  turn  him  out  of  the  house,  or  at 
least  to  charge  him  for  his  board  and  lodging. 

The  intonation  of  his  voice  laid  her  heart  waste; 
she  felt  she  was  done  for,  and  she  walked  home  re- 
peating the  words,  "  I  am  done  for." 

As  she  passed  through  her  garden  she  saw  that  her 
flowers  were  dying  for  want  of  water,  and  she  gave 
them  a  few  cans  of  water ;  but  she  could  not  do  much 
work,  and  though  the  cans  were  heavy,  they  were  not 
as  heavy  as  her  heart.  She  sat  down  under  the  apple- 
tree  and  remembered  her  life.  Her  best  days  were  her 
school-days.  Then  life  was  beginning.  Now  it  seemed 
to  her  nearly  over,  and  she  only  five-and-twenty.  She 
never  could  take  the  same  interest  in  politics  as  she 
had  once  taken,  nor  in  books.  She  felt  that  her  intelli- 
gence had  declined.  She  was  cleverer  as  a  girl  than 
she  was  as  a  woman. 

Ned  was  coming  home  for  dinner,  and  some  time 
that  evening  she  would  have  to  tell  him  that  she  had 

335 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

read  his  manuscript.  She  would  have  liked  to  meet 
him  at  the  station,  but  thought  it  would  be  better  not 
to  go.  The  day  wore  away.  Ned  was  in  his  best 
humour,  and  when  she  told  him  why  she  did  not  go 
to  the  station  to  meet  him,  he  said  it  was  foolish  of 
her  not  to  have  come,  for  there  was  nothing  he  liked 
better  than  to  stroll  home  with  her  in  the  evening, 
the  road  was  so  pleasant,  etc. 

She  could  see  that  he  had  not  noticed  her  dress  or 
what  he  was  eating,  and  it  was  irritating  to  see  him 
sitting  there  with  his  spoon  full  of  soup  telling  her 
how  the  Irish  people  would  have  to  reduce  their  ex- 
penditure and  think  a  little  less  of  priests  —  for  a 
while,  at  least — unless  they  were  minded  to  pass  away, 
to  become  absorbed  in  America. 

"  I  like  Brennan,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  back 
in  his  chair.  "  He  is  a  clever  man.  Brennan  knows 
as  well  as  I  do  there's  too  much  money  spent  upon 
religion  in  Ireland.  But,  tell  me,  did  he  tell  you  ex- 
plicitly that  you  should  give  me  no  more  money?" 

"Yes.    But,  Ned " 

"  No,  no,  I  am  not  in  the  least  angry,"  he  said,  "  I 
shall  always  get  money  to  carry  on  politics.  But  what 
a  game  it  is!  And  I  suppose,  Ellen,  you  consult  him 
on  every  detail  of  your  life?" 

Her  admission  that  Father  Brennan  had  taken  down 
books  and  put  on  his  spectacles  delighted  him. 

"  Taking  down  tomes !"  he  said.  "  Splendid ! 
Some  of  these  gentlemen  would  discuss  theology  with 
God.  I  can  see  Father  Brennan  getting  up :  '  Sire, 
my  reason  for  entering  the  said  sin  as  a  venal  sin, 
etc.'  " 

Very  often  during  the  evening  the  sewing  dropped 
336 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

from  her  hands,  and  she  sat  thinking.  Sooner  or  later 
she  would  have  to  tell  Ned  she  had  read  his  manu- 
script. He  would  not  mind  her  reading  his  manu- 
script, and  though  he  hated  the  idea  that  anyone  should 
turn  to  a  priest  and  ask  him  for  his  interpretation 
regarding  right  and  wrong,  he  had  not,  on  the  whole, 
been  as  angry  as  she  had  expected. 

At  last  she  got  up.    "  I  am  going  to  bed,  Ned." 

"Isn't  it  very  early?" 

"  There  is  no  use  my  stopping  here.  You  don't 
want  to  talk  to  me;  you'll  go  on  playing  till  mid- 
night." 

"  Now,  why  this  petulancy,  Ellen  ?  I  think  it  shows 
a  good  deal  of  forgiveness  for  me  to  kiss  you  after 
the  way  you  have  behaved." 

She  held  a  long  string  of  grease  in  her  fingers,  and 
was  melting  it,  and  when  she  could  no  longer  hold  it 
in  her  fingers,  she  threw  the  end  into  the  flame. 

"  I've  forgiven  you,  Ellen.  .  .  .  You  never  tell  me 
anything  of  your  ideas  now;  we  never  talk  to  each 
other,  and  if  this  last  relation  is  broken  there  will  be 
nothing  .  .  .  will  there?" 

"  I  sought  Father  Brennan's  advice  under  the  seal  of 
confession,  that  was  all.  You  don't  think  that " 

"  There  are  plenty  of  indirect  ways  in  which  he  will 
be  able  to  make  use  of  the  information  he  has  got  from 
you." 

"  You  have  not  yet  heard  how  it  happened,  and 
perhaps  when  you  do  you  will  think  worse  of  me.  I 
went  into  your  room  to  see  what  books  you  were  read- 
ing. There  was  no  harm  in  looking  at  a  book;  but 
you  had  put  the  books  so  far  into  the  bookcase  that 
I  could  not  see  the  name  of  the  author.  I  took  up 
22  337 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

the  manuscript  from  the  table  and  glanced  through 
it.  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  have  done  that :  a  manu- 
script is  not  the  same  as  a  book.  And  now  good- 
night." 

She  had  gone  to  her  room  and  did  not  expect  him. 
Well,  the  sensual  coil  was  broken,  and  if  he  did  not 
follow  her  now  she  would  understand  that  it  was 
broken.  He  had  wanted  freedom  this  long  while. 
They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  second  period,  and 
there  are  three — a  year  of  mystery  and  passion,  and 
then  some  years  of  passion  without  mystery.  The 
third  period  is  one  of  resignation.  The  lives  of  the 
parents  pass  into  the  children,  and  the  mated  journey 
on,  carrying  their  packs.  Seldom,  indeed,  the  man 
and  the  woman  weary  of  the  life  of  passion  at  the 
same  time  and  turn  instinctively  into  the  way  of  resig- 
nation like  animals.  Sometimes  it  is  the  man  who 
turns  first,  sometimes  it  is  the  woman.  In  this  case  it 
was  the  man.  He  had  his  work  to  do,  and  Ellen  had 
her  child  to  think  of,  and  each  must  think  of  his  and 
her  task  from  henceforth.  Their  tasks  were  not  the 
same.  Each  had  a  different  task;  she  had  thrown, 
or  tried  to  throw,  his  pack  from  his  shoulders.  She 
had  thwarted  him,  or  tried  to  thwart  him.  He  grew 
angry  as  he  thought  of  what  she  had  done.  She  had 
gone  into  his  study  and  read  his  papers,  and  she  had 
then  betrayed  him  to  a  priest.  He  lay  awake  thinking 
how  he  had  been  deceived  by  Ellen;  thinking  that 
he  had  been  mistaken;  that  her  character  was  not 
the  noble  character  he  had  imagined.  But  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart  he  was  true  to  the  noble  soul  that 
religion  could  not  extinguish  nor  even  his  neglect. 

She  said  one  day :  "  Is  it  because  I  read  your  manu- 
338 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

script  and  told  the  priest,  that  you  would  not  come  to 
my  room,  or  is  it  because  you  are  tired  of  me?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you ;  and,  really,  this  conversation  is 
very  painful.  I  am  engaged  upon  my  work,  and  I  have 
no  thoughts  for  anything  but  it." 

Another  time  when  he  came  from  the  piano  and 
sat  opposite  to  her  she  raised  her  eyes  from  her  sew- 
ing and  sat  looking  at  him,  and  then  getting  up 
suddenly  she  put  her  hands  to  her  forehead  and  said 
to  herself :  "  I  will  conquer  this,"  and  she  went  out  of 
the  room. 

And  from  that  day  she  did  not  trouble  him  with 
love.  She  obtained  control  over  herself,  and  he  re- 
membered a  mistress  who  had  ceased  to  love  him, 
and  he  had  persecuted  her  for  a  long  while  with 
supplication.  "  She  is  at  one  with  herself  always," 
he  said,  and  he  tried  to  understand  her.  "  She  is 
one  of  those  whose  course  through  life  is  straight,  and 
not  zig-zag,  as  mine  is."  He  liked  to  see  her  turn 
and  look  at  the  baby,  and  he  said,  "  That  love  is  the 
permanent  and  original  element  of  things,  it  is  the 
universal  substance;"  and  he  could  trace  Ellen's  love 
of  her  child  in  her  love  of  him;  these  loves  were  not 
two  loves,  but  one  love.  And  when  walking  one  even- 
ing through  the  shadows,  as  they  spoke  about  the 
destiny  we  can  trace  in  our  lives,  about  life  and  its 
loneliness,  the  conversation  verged  on  the  personal, 
and  she  said,  with  a  little  accent  of  regret,  but  not 
reproachfully : — 

"  But,  Ned,  you  could  not  live  with  anyone,  at  least 
not  always.  I  think  you  would  sooner  not  live  with 
anyone." 

He  did  not  dare  to  contradict  her;  he  knew  that 
339 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

she  had  spoken  the  truth;  and  Ned  was  sorry  he  was 
giving  pain  to  Ellen,  for  there  was  no  one  he  would 
have  liked  to  please  better.  He  regretted  that  he  was 
what  he  was,  that  his  course  was  zig-zag.  For  a 
moment  he  regretted  that  such  a  fate  should  have 
befallen  Ellen.  "  I  am  not  the  husband  that  would 
have  suited  her,"  he  said.  .  .  .  And  then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  "  I  was  her  instinct ;  another  would 
not  have  satisfied  her  instinct ;  constancy  is  not  every- 
thing. It's  a  pity  I  cannot  love  her  always,  for  none 
is  more  worthy  of  being  loved." 

They  became  friends ;  he  knew  there  was  no  danger 
of  her  betraying  him  again.  Her  responsibility  ended 
with  her  money,  and  he  told  her  how  the  agitation  was 
progressing. 

"  Oh,  Ned,  if  I  were  only  sure  that  your  agitation 
was  not  directed  against  religion  I  would  follow  you. 
But  you  will  never  believe  in  me." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  in  you.  Come  to  Dublin  with  me ; 
come  to  the  meeting.  I'd  like  you  to  hear  my  speech." 

"  I  would  like  to  hear  you  speak,  Ned ;  but  I  don't 
think  I  can  go  to  the  meeting." 

They  were  on  their  way  to  the  station,  and  they 
walked  some  time  without  speaking.  Then,  speaking 
suddenly  and  gravely  as  if  prompted  by  some  deep 
instinct,  Ellen  said: — 

"  But  if  you  fail,  Ned,  you  will  be  an  outcast  in 
Ireland,  and  if  that  happens  you  will  go  away,  and  I 
shall  never  see  you  again." 

He  turned  and  stood  looking  at  her.  That  he  should 
fail  and  become  an  outcast  were  not  at  all  unlikely. 
Her  words  seemed  to  him  like  a  divination!  But  it 
is  the  unexpected  that  happens,  she  said  to  herself, 

340 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

and  the  train  came  up  to  the  station,  and  he  bade  her 
good-bye,  and  settled  himself  down  in  a  seat  to  con- 
sider his  speech  for  the  last  time. 

"  I  shall  say  everything  I  dare,  the  moment  is  ripe ; 
and  the  threat  to  hold  out  is  that  Ireland  is  becoming 
a  Protestant  country.  And  the  argument  to  use  is 
that  the  Catholics  are  leaving  because  there  is  no  joy 
in  Ireland." 

He  went  through  the  different  sections  of  his  speech 
introducing  the  word  joy :  Is  Ireland  going  to  become 
joyous?  She  has  dreamed  long  enough  among  dead 
bones  and  ancient  formulae.  The  little  stations  went  by 
and  the  train  rolled  into  Harcourt  Street.  He  called 
a  car.  He  was  speaking  at  the  Rotunda. 

He  was  speaking  on  the  depopulation  question,  and 
he  said  that  this  question  came  before  every  other 
question.  Ireland  was  now  confronted  with  the  possi- 
bility that  in  five-and-twenty  years  the  last  of  Ireland 
would  have  disappeared  in  America.  There  were 
some  who  attributed  the  Irish  emigration  to  economic 
causes :  that  was  a  simple  and  obvious  explanation, 
one  that  could  be  understood  by  everybody;  but  these 
simple  and  obvious  explanations  are  not  often,  if 
they  are  ever,  the  true  ones.  The  first  part  of  Ned's 
speech  was  taken  up  with  the  examination  of  the  eco- 
nomic causes,  and  proving  that  these  were  not  the  ori- 
gin of  the  evil.  The  country  was  joyless ;  man's  life  is 
joyless  in  Ireland.  In  every  other  country  there  were 
merry-makings.  "  You  have  only  to  go  into  the 
National  Gallery,"  he  said,  "  to  see  how  much  time 
the  Dutch  spent  in  merry-makings."  All  their  pic- 
tures with  the  exception  of  Rembrandt's  treated  of 
joyful  subjects,  of  peasants  dancing  under  trees,  peas- 

34i 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

ants  drinking  and  singing  songs  in  taverns,  and  ca- 
ressing servant  girls.  Some  of  their  merry-makings 
were  not  of  a  very  refined  character,  but  the  ordinary 
man  is  not  refined,  and  in  the  most  refined  men  there  is 
often  admiration  and  desire  for  common  pleasure.  In 
the  country  districts  Irish  life  is  one  of  stagnant  melan- 
choly, the  only  aspiration  that  comes  into  their  lives 
is  a  religious  one.  "  Of  course  it  will  be  said  that  the 
Irish  are  too  poor  to  pay  for  pleasure,  but  they  are 
not  too  poor  to  spend  fifteen  millions  a  year  upon  re- 
ligion." He  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  who  would 
say  that  religion  was  not  necessary,  but  if  he  were 
right  in  saying  that  numbers  were  leaving  Ireland 
because  Ireland  was  joyless  he  was  right  in  saying 
that  it  was  the  duty  of  every  Irishman  to  spend  his 
money  in  making  Ireland  a  joyful  country.  He  was 
speaking  now  in  the  interests  of  religion.  A  country 
is  antecedent  to  religion.  To  have  religion  you  must 
first  have  a  country,  and  if  Ireland  was  not  made 
joyful  Ireland  would  become  a  Protestant  country  in 
about  twenty-five  years.  In  support  of  this  contention 
he  produced  figures  showing  the  rate  at  which  the 
Catholics  were  emigrating.  But  not  only  were  the 
Catholics  emigrating — those  who  remained  were  be- 
coming nuns  and  priests.  As  the  lay  population 
declined  the  clerics  became  more  numerous.  "  Now," 
he  said,  "  there  must  be  a  laity.  It  is  a  very  common- 
place thing  to  say,  but  this  very  commonplace  truth 
is  forgotten  or  ignored,  and  I  come  here  to  plead 
to-day  for  the  harmless  and  the  necessary  laity."  He 
knew  that  these  words  would  get  a  laugh,  and  that 
the  laugh  would  get  him  at  least  two  or  three  min- 
utes' grace,  and  these  two  or  three  minutes  could 

342 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

not  be  better  employed  than  with  statistics,  and  he 
produced  some  astonishing  figures.  These  figures  were 
compiled,  he  said,  by  a  prelate  bearing  an  Irish  name, 
but  whose  object  in  Ireland  was  to  induce  Irishmen 
and  Irishwomen  to  leave  Ireland.  This  would  not 
be  denied,  though  the  pretext  on  which  he  wished 
Irish  men  and  women  to  leave  Ireland  would  be  pleaded 
as  justification.  "  But  of  this  I  shall  speak,"  Ned 
said,  "  presently.  I  want  you  first  to  give  your  atten- 
tion to  the  figures  which  this  prelate  produced,  and 
with  approbation.  According  to  him  there  were  ten 
convents  and  one  hundred  nuns  in  the  beginning 
of  the  century,  now  there  were  twelve  hundred  con- 
vents and  twenty  thousand  nuns.  The  prelate  thinks 
that  this  is  a  matter  for  us  to  congratulate  ourselves 
on.  In  view  of  our  declining  population  I  cannot 
agree,  and  I  regret  that  prelates  should  make  such 
thoughtless  observations.  Again  I  have  to  remind 
you  of  a  fact  that  cannot  be  denied,  but  which  is 
ignored,  and  it  is  that  a  celibate  clergy  cannot  con- 
tinue the  population,  and  that  if  the  population  be 
not  continued  the  tail  of  the  race  will  disappear  in 
America  in  about  twenty-five  years.  .  .  .  Not  only 
does  this  prelate  think  that  we  should  congratulate 
ourselves  on  the  fact  that  while  the  lay  population 
is  decreasing  the  clerical  population  is  increasing,  but 
he  thinks  that  Ireland  should  still  furnish  foreign 
missions.  He  came  to  Ireland  to  get  recruits,  to 
beseech  Irishmen  and  Irishwomen  to  continue  their 
noble  work  of  the  conversion  of  the  world.  No  doubt 
the  conversion  of  the  world  is  a  noble  work.  My 
point  now  is  that  Ireland  has  done  her  share  in  this 
noble  work,  and  that  Ireland  can  no  longer  spare  one 

343 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

single  lay  Irishman  or  cleric  or  any  Irishwoman.  If 
the  foreign  mission  is  to  be  recruited  it  must  be 
recruited  at  the  expense  of  some  other  country." 

Ned  suggested  Belgium  as  the  best  recruiting 
ground.  But  it  was  the  prelate's  own  business  to 
find  recruits,  it  was  only  Ned's  business  to  say  that 
Ireland  had  done  enough  for  the  conversion  of  the 
world.  And  this  prelate  with  the  Irish  name  and 
cosmopolitan  heart,  who  thought  it  an  admirable 
thing  that  the  clerical  population  should  increase, 
while  the  lay  population  declined;  who  thought  that 
with  the  declining  population  Ireland  should  still  send 
out  priests  and  nuns  to  convert  the  world — was  no 
true  Irishman.  He  cared  not  a  jot  what  became  of 
his  country,  so  long  as  Ireland  continued  to  furnish 
him  with  priests  and  nuns  for  the  foreign  mission. 
This  prelate  was  willing  to  bleed  Ireland  to  death 
to  make  a  Roman  holiday.  Ireland  did  not  matter 
to  him,  Ireland  was  a  speck — Ned  would  like  to  have 
said,  a  chicken  that  the  prelate  would  drop  into  the 
caldron  which  he  was  boiling  for  the  cosmopolitan 
restaurant;  but  this  would  be  an  attack  upon  religion, 
it  would  be  too  direct  to  be  easily  understood  by 
the  audience,  and  as  the  words  came  to  his  lips  he 
changed  the  phrase  and  said,  "  a  pinch  of  snuff  in  the 
Roman  snuff-box."  After  this,  Ned  passed  on  to 
perhaps  the  most  important  part  of  his  speech — to 
the  acquisition  of  wealth  by  the  clergy.  He  said 
that  if  the  lay  population  had  declined,  and  if  the 
clerical  population  had  increased,  there  was  one  thing 
that  had  increased  with  the  clergy,  and  that  was  the 
wealth  of  the  clergy.  "  I  wish  the  cosmopolitan  prel- 
ate had  spoken  upon  this  subject.  I  wonder  if  he 

344 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

inquired  how  much  land  has  passed  into  the  hands  of 
the  clergy  in  the  last  twenty  years,  and  how  many 
mortgages  the  religious  hold  upon  land.  I  wonder 
if  he  inquired  how  many  poultry-farms  the  nuns  and 
the  friars  are  adding  to  their  convents  and  their  mon- 
asteries ;  and  now  they  are  starting  new  manufactories 
for  weaving — the  weaving  industry  is  falling  into  their 
hands.  And  there  are  no  lay  teachers  in  Ireland,  now 
all  the  teaching  is  done  by  clerics.  The  Church  is  very 
rich  in  Ireland.  If  Ireland  is  the  poorest  country  in 
the  world,  the  Irish  Church  is  richer  than  any  other. 
All  the  money  in  Ireland  goes  into  religion.  There  is 
only  one  other  trade  that  can  compete  with  it.  Heaven 
may  be  for  the  laity,  but  this  world  is  certainly  for 
the  clergy." 

More  money  was  spent  upon  religion  in  Ireland  than 
in  any  other  country.  Too  much  money  was  spent 
for  the  moment  in  building  churches,  and  the  great 
sums  of  money  that  were  being  spent  on  religion  were 
not  fairly  divided.  And  passing  rapidly  on,  Ned  very 
adroitly  touched  upon  the  relative  positions  of  the 
bishops  and  the  priests  and  the  curates.  He  told 
harrowing  stories  of  the  destitution  of  the  curates,  and 
he  managed  so  well  that  his  audience  had  not  time  to 
stop  him.  Everything  he  thought  that  they  could  not 
agree  with  he  sandwiched  between  things  that  he  knew 
they  would  agree  with. 

Father  Murphy  stood  a  little  distance  on  his  right,  a 
thick-set  man,  and  as  the  sentences  fell  from  Ned's  lips 
he  could  see  that  Father  Murphy  was  preparing  his 
answer,  and  he  guessed  what  Father  Murphy's  answer 
would  be  like.  He  knew  Father  Murphy  to  be  an 
adroit  speaker,  and  the  priest  began  in  a  low  key  as 

345 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

Ned  had  expected  him  to  do.  He  began  by  deploring 
the  evils  of  emigration,  and  Mr.  Carmady  deserved 
their  best  thanks  for  attracting  popular  attention  to 
this  evil.  They  were  indebted  to  him  for  having  done 
this.  Others  had  denounced  the  evil,  but  Mr.  Car- 
mady's  eloquence  had  enabled  him  to  do  so  as  well, 
perhaps  even  better  than  it  had  been  done  before.  He 
complimented  Mr.  Carmady  on  the  picturesque  manner 
in  which  he  described  the  emptying  of  the  country,  but 
he  could  not  agree  with  Mr.  Carmady  regarding  the 
causes  that  had  brought  about  this  lamentable  desire 
to  leave  the  fatherland.  Mr.  Carmady's  theory  was 
that  the  emptying  of  Ireland  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  Irish  priests  had  succeeded  in  inducing  men  to 
refrain  from  the  commission  of  sin.  Mr.  Carmady  did 
not  reproach  the  priests  with  having  failed;  he  re- 
proached them  with  having  succeeded.  A  strange 
complaint.  The  cause  of  the  emigration,  which  we  all 
agreed  in  deploring,  was,  according  to  Mr.  Carmady, 
the  desire  of  a  sinless  people  for  sin.  A  strange  accu- 
sation. The  people,  according  to  Mr.  Carmady,  were 
leaving  Ireland  because  they  wished  to  indulge  in  inde- 
cent living.  Mr.  Carmady  did  not  use  these  words; 
the  words  he  used  were  "The  joy  of  life,"  but  the 
meaning  of  the  words  was  well  known. 

"  No  race,"  he  said,  ''  had  perhaps  ever  been  libelled 
as  the  Irish  race  had  been,  but  of  all  the  libels  that  had 
ever  been  levelled  against  it,  no  libel  had  ever  equalled 
the  libel  which  he  had  heard  uttered  to-day,  that  the 
Irish  were  leaving  Ireland  in  search  of  sin. 

"  They  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  dancing- 
girl,  and  according  to  Mr.  Carmady  it  would  seem  that 
a  nation  could  save  itself  by  jigging." 

346 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  He  is  speaking  very  well,  from  his  point  of  view," 
said  Ned  to  himself. 

Father  Murphy  was  a  stout,  bald-headed  man  with 
small  pig-like  eyes,  and  a  piece  seemed  to  have  been 
taken  from  the  top  of  his  bony  forehead.  He  was 
elegantly  dressed  in  broadcloth  and  he  wore  a  gold 
chain  and  he  dangled  his  chain  from  time  to  time.  He 
was  clearly  the  well-fed,  well-housed  cleric  who  was 
making,  in  this  world,  an  excellent  living  of  his  advo- 
cacy for  the  next,  and  Ned  wondered  how  it  was  that 
the  people  did  not  perceive  a  discrepancy  between 
Father  Murphy's  appearance  and  the  theories  he  pro- 
pounded. "  The  idealism  of  the  Irish  people,"  said  the 
priest,  "  was  inveterate,"  and  he  settled  himself  on  his 
short  legs  and  began  his  peroration. 

Ned  had  begun  to  feel  that  he  had  failed,  he  began 
to  think  of  his  passage  back  to  America.  Father  Mur- 
phy was  followed  by  a  young  curate,  and  the  curate 
began  by  saying  that  Mr.  Carmady  would  be  able  to 
defend  his  theories,  and  that  he  had  no  concern  with 
Mr.  Carmady's  theories,  though,  indeed,  he  did  not 
hear  Mr.  Carmady  say  anything  which  was  contrary  to 
the  doctrine  of  our  "  holy  religion."  Father  Murphy 
had  understood  Mr.  Carmady's  speech  in  quite  a  differ- 
ent light,  and  it  seemed  to  the  curate  that  he,  Father 
Murphy,  had  put  a  wrong  interpretation  upon  it;  at 
all  events  he  had  put  one  which  the  curate  could  not 
share.  Mr.  Carmady  had  ventured,  and,  he  thought, 
very  properly,  to  call  attention  to  the  number  of 
churches  that  were  being  built  and  the  number  of 
people  who  were  daily  entering  the  orders.  He  did 
not  wish  to  criticise  men  and  women  who  gave  up  their 
lives  to  God,  but  Mr.  Carmady  was  quite  right  when 

347 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

he  said  that  without  a  laity  there  could  be  no  country. 
In  Ireland  the  clergy  were  apt  to  forget  this  simple 
fact  that  celibates  do  not  continue  the  race.  Mr.  Car- 
mady  had  quoted  from  a  book  written  by  a  priest  in 
which  the  distinguished  author  had  said  he  looked  for- 
ward to  the  day  when  Ireland  would  be  one  vast  mon- 
astery, and  the  curate  agreed  with  Mr.  Carmady  that 
no  more  foolish  wish  had  ever  found  its  way  into  a 
book.  He  agreed  with  Mr.  Carmady  that  a  real  voca- 
tion is  a  rare  thing.  No  country  had  produced  many 
painters  or  many  sculptors  or  many  poets,  and  a  true 
religious  vocation  was  equally  rare.  Mr.  Carmady  had 
pointed  out  that  although  the  population  had  dimin- 
ished the  nuns  and  priests  had  increased,  and  Father 
Murphy  must  hold  that  Ireland  must  become  one  vast 
monastery,  and  the  laity  ought  to  become  extinct,  or 
he  must  agree  with  Mr.  Carmady  that  there  was  a 
point  when  a  too  numerous  clergy  would  overbalance 
the  laity. 

Altogether  an  unexpected  and  plucky  little  speech, 
and  long  before  it  closed  Ned  saw  that  Father  Mur- 
phy's triumph  was  not  complete.  Father  Murphy's 
face  told  the  same  tale. 

The  curate's  argument  was  taken  up  by  other 
curates,  and  Ned  began  to  see  he  had  the  youth  of  the 
country  on  his  side. 

He  was  speaking  at  the  end  of  the  week  at  another 
great  meeting,  and  received  even  better  support  at  this 
meeting  than  he  had  done  at  the  first,  and  he  returned 
home  wondering  what  his  wife  was  thinking  of  his 
success.  But  what  matter?  Ireland  was  waking  from 
her  sleep.  .  .  .  The  agitataion  was  running  from 
parish  to  parish,  it  seemed  as  if  the  impossible  were 

348 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

going  to  happen,  and  that  the  Gael  was  going  to  be 
free. 

The  curates  had  grievances,  and  he  applied  himself 
to  setting  the  inferior  clergy  against  their  superiors, 
and  as  the  agitation  developed  he  told  the  curates  that 
they  were  no  better  than  ecclesiastical  serfs,  that 
although  the  parish  priests  dozed  in  comfortable  arm- 
chairs and  drank  champagne,  the  curates  lived  by  the 
wayside  and  ate  and  drank  very  little  and  did  all  the 
work. 

But  one  day  at  Maynooth  it  was  decided  that  curates 
had  legitimate  grievances,  and  that  the  people  had 
grievances  that  were  likewise  legitimate.  And  at  this 
great  council  it  was  decided  that  the  heavy  marriage 
fees  and  the  baptismal  fees  demanded  by  the  priests 
should  be  reduced.  Concessions  were  accompanied  by 
threats.  Even  so  it  required  all  the  power  of  the 
Church  to  put  down  the  agitation.  Everyone  stood 
agape,  saying  the  bishops  must  win  in  the  end.  An 
indiscretion  on  Ned's  part  gave  them  the  victory.  In 
a  moment  of  excitement  he  was  unwise  enough  to  quote 
John  Mitchel's  words  "  that  the  Irish  would  be  free 
long  ago  only  for  their  damned  souls."  A  priest  wrote 
to  the  newspapers  pointing  out  that  after  these  words 
there  could  be  no  further  doubt  that  it  was  the  doctrine 
of  the  French  Revolution  that  Mr.  Carmady  was  trying 
to  force  upon  a  Christian  people.  A  bishop  wrote 
saying  that  the  words  quoted  were  fit  words  for  Anti- 
Christ.  After  that  it  was  difficult  for  a  priest  to  appear 
on  the  same  platform,  and  the  curates  whose  grievances 
had  been  redressed  deserted,  and  the  fight  became  an 
impossible  one. 

Very  soon  Ned's  meetings  were  interrupted,  dis- 
349 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

agreeable  scenes  began  to  happen,  and  his  letters  were 
not  admitted  to  the  newspapers.  A  great  solitude 
formed  about  him. 

"  Well,"  he  said  one  morning,  "  I  suppose  you  have 
read  the  account  in  the  paper  of  my  ignominious 
escape.  That  is  what  they  called  it." 

"  The  wheel,"  Ellen  said,  "  is  always  going  round. 
You  may  be  at  the  bottom  now,  but  the  wheel  is  going 
round,  only  there  is  no  use  opposing  the  people  in  their 
traditions,  in  their  instinct.  .  .  .  And  whether  the  race 
is  destined  to  disappear  or  to  continue  it  is  certain  that 
the  last  Gael  will  die  a  Catholic." 

"  And  the  Red  Indian  will  die  with  the  scalp  at  his 
girdle." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  religion,  we'll  talk  about 
things  we  are  agreed  upon.  I  have  heard  you  say 
yourself  that  you  would  not  go  back  to  America  again, 
that  you  never  enjoyed  life  until  you  came  here." 

"  That  was  because  I  met  you,  Ellen." 

"  I  have  heard  you  praise  Ireland  as  being  the  most 
beautiful  and  sympathetic  country  in  the  world." 

"  It  is  true  that  I  love  these  people,  and  I  wish  I 
could  become  one  of  them." 

"  You  would  become  one  of  them,  and  yet  you  would 
tear  them  to  pieces  because  they  are  not  what  you  want 
them  to  be." 

Sometimes  he  thought  he  would  like  to  write  "  A 
Western  Thibet,"  but  he  was  more  a  man  of  action 
than  of  letters.  His  writings  had  been  so  long  confined 
to  newspaper  articles  that  he  could  not  see  his  way 
from  chapter  to  chapter.  He  might  have  overcome  the 
difficulty,  but  doubt  began  to  poison  his  mind.  "  Every 
race,"  he  said,  "  has  its  own  special  genius.  The  Ger- 

350 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

mans  have  or  have  had  music.  The  French  and  Ital- 
ians have  or  have  had  painting  and  sculpture.  The 
English  have  or  have  had  poetry.  The  Irish  had,  and 
alas!  they  still  have  their  special  genius,  religious 
vocation." 

He  used  to  go  for  long  walks  on  the  hills,  and  one 
day,  lying  in  the  furze  amid  the  rough  grass,  his  eyes 
following  the  course  of  the  ships  in  the  bay,  he  said: 
"  Was  it  accident  or  my  own  fantastic  temperament 
that  brought  me  back  from  Cuba?"  It  seemed  as  if  a 
net  had  been  thrown  over  him  and  he  had  been  drawn 
along  like  a  fish  in  a  net.  "  For  some  purpose,"  he 
said.  "  But  for  what  purpose  ?  I  can  perceive  none, 
and  yet  I  cannot  believe  that  an  accident  brought  me 
to  Ireland  and  involved  me  in  the  destiny  of  Ireland  for 
no  purpose." 

And  he  did  not  need  to  take  the  book  from  his 
pocket,  he  knew  the  passage  well,  and  he  repeated  it 
word  for  word  while  he  watched  the  ships  in  the  bay. 

"  We  were  friends  and  we  have  become  strangers, 
one  to  the  other.  Ah,  yes ;  but  it  is  so,  and  we  do  not 
wish  to  hide  our  strangerhood,  or  to  dissemble  as  if  we 
were  ashamed  of  it.  We  are  two  ships  each  with  a 
goal  and  a  way;  and  our  ways  may  draw  together 
again  and  we  may  make  holiday  as  before.  And  how 
peacefully  the  good  ships  used  to  lie  in  the  same  har- 
bour, under  the  same  sun;  it  seemed  as  if  they  had 
reached  their  goal,  and  it  seemed  as  if  there  was  a  goal. 
But  soon  the  mighty  sway  of  our  tasks  laid  on  us  as 
from  of  old  sundered  and  drove  us  into  different  seas 
and  different  zones ;  and  it  may  be  that  we  shall  never 
meet  again  and  it  may  be  that  we  shall  meet  and  not 
know  each  other,  so  deeply  have  the  different  seas  and 

3Si 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

suns  changed  us.  The  law  that  is  over  us  decreed  that 
we  must  become  strangers  one  to  the  other;  and  for 
this  we  must  reverence  each  other  the  more,  and  for 
this  the  memory  of  our  past  friendship  becomes  more 
sacred.  Perhaps  there  is  a  vast  invisible  curve  and 
orbit  and  our  different  goals  and  ways  are  parcel  of  it, 
infinitesimal  segments.  Let  us  uplift  ourselves  to  this 
thought!  But  our  life  is  too  short  and  our  sight  too 
feeble  for  us  to  be  friends  except  in  the  sense  of  this 
sublime  possibility.  So,  let  us  believe  in  our  stellar 
friendship  though  we  must  be  enemies  on  earth." 

"  A  deep  and  mysterious  truth,"  he  said,  "  I  must  go, 
I  must  go,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  My  Irish  life  is 
ended.  There  is  a  starry  orbit,  and  Ireland  and  I  are 
parts  of  it,  '  and  we  must  believe  in  our  stellar  friend- 
ship though  we  are  enemies  upon  earth.' " 

He  wandered  about  admiring  the  large  windless 
evening  and  the  bright  bay.  Great  men  had  risen  up 
in  Ireland  and  had  failed  before  him,  and  it  were  easy 
to  account  for  their  failure  by  saying  they  were  not 
close  enough  to  the  tradition  of  their  race,  that  they 
had  just  missed  it,  but  some  of  the  fault  must  be  the 
fault  of  Ireland.  .  .  .  The  anecdote  varies,  but  sub- 
stantially it  is  always  the  same  story :  The  interests  of 
Ireland  sacrificed  to  the  interests  of  Rome. 

There  came  a  whirring  sound,  and  high  overhead  he 
saw  three  great  birds  flying  through  the  still  air,  and 
he  knew  them  to  be  wild  geese  flying  south.  .  .  . 

War  had  broken  out  in  South  Africa,  Irishmen  were 
going  out  to  fight  once  again ;  they  were  going  to  fight 
the  stranger  abroad  when  they  could  fight  him  at  home 
no  longer.  The  birds  died  down  on  the  horizon,  and 
there  was  the  sea  before  him,  bright  and  beautiful,  with 

352 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

ships  passing  into  the  glimmering  dusk,  and  among 
the  hills  a  little  mist  was  gathering.  He  remembered 
the  great  pagans  who  had  wandered  over  these  hills 
before  scapulars  and  rosaries  were  invented.  His 
thoughts  came  in  flashes,  and  his  happiness  grew  in- 
tense. He  had  wanted  to  go  and  the  birds  had  shown 
him  where  he  might  go.  His  instinct  was  to  go,  he 
was  stifling  in  Ireland.  He  might  never  find  the  coun- 
try he  desired,  but  he  must  get  out  of  Ireland,  "  a 
mean  ineffectual  atmosphere,"  he  said,  "  of  nuns  and 
rosaries." 

A  mist  was  rising,  the  lovely  outlines  of  Howth 
reminded  him  of  pagan  Ireland.  "  They're  like  music," 
he  said,  and  he  thought  of  Usheen  and  his  harp. 
"  Will  Usheen  ever  come  again  ?"  he  said.  "  Better  to 
die  than  to  live  here."  And  the  mist  thickened — he 
could  see  Howth  no  longer.  "  The  land  is  dolorous," 
he  said,  and  as  if  in  answer  to  his  words  the  most 
dolorous  melody  he  had  ever  heard  came  out  of  the 
mist.  "  The  wailing  of  an  abandoned  race,"  he  said. 
"  This  is  the  soul-sickness  from  which  we  are  fleeing." 
And  he  wandered  about  calling  to  the  shepherd,  and 
the  shepherd  answered,  but  the  mist  was  so  thick  in 
the  hollows  that  neither  could  find  the  other.  After  a 
little  while  the  shepherd  began  to  play  his  flageolet 
again ;  and  Ned  listened  to  it,  singing  it  after  him,  and 
he  walked  home  quickly,  and  the  moment  he  entered 
the  drawing-room  he  said  to  Ellen,  "  Don't  speak  to 
me;  I  am  going  to  write  something  down,"  and  this 
is  what  he  wrote : — 


23  353 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 
THE  WILD  GOOSE. 


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H£ 


1 


3  ~& 


354 


THE  WILD   GOOSE 

"  A  mist  came  on  suddenly,  and  I  heard  a  shepherd 
playing  this  folk-tune.  Listen  to  it.  Is  it  not  like  the 
people?  Is  it  not  like  Ireland?  Is  it  not  like  every- 
thing that  has  happened?  It  is  melancholy  enough  in 
this  room,  but  no  words  can  describe  its  melancholy  on 
a  flageolet  played  by  a  shepherd  in  the  mist.  It  is  the 
song  of  the  exile ;  it  is  the  cry  of  one  driven  out  in  the 
night — into  a  night  of  wind  and  rain.  It  is  night,  and 
the  exile  on  the  edge  of  the  waste.  It  is  like  the  wind 
sighing  over  bog  water.  It  is  a  prophetic  echo  and 
final  despair  of  a  people  who  knew  they  were  done  for 
from  the  beginning.  A  mere  folk-tune,  mere  nature, 
raw  and  unintellectual ;  and  these  raw  folk-tunes  are 
all  that  we  shall  have  done:  and  by  these  and  these 
alone,  shall  we  be  remembered." 

"  Ned,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  think  you  had  better  go 
away.  I  can  see  you're  wearing  out  your  heart  here." 

"  Why  do  you  think  I  should  go  ?  What  put  that 
idea  into  your  head?" 

"  I  can  see  you  are  not  happy." 

"  But  you  said  that  the  wheel  would  turn,  and  that 
what  was  lowest  would  come  to  the  top." 

"  Yes,  Ned ;  but  sometimes  the  wheel  is  a  long  time 
in  turning,  and  maybe  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  go 
away  for  a  while." 

He  told  her  that  he  had  seen  wild  geese  on  the 
hill. 

"  And  it  was  from  you  I  heard  about  the  wild  geese. 
You  told  me  the  history  of  Ireland,  sitting  on  a  Druid 
stone?" 

"  You  want  to  go,  Ned  ?  And  the  desire  to  go  is  as 
strong  in  you  as  in  the  wild  geese." 

"  Maybe ;   but  I  shall  come  back,  Ellen." 
355 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  Do  you  think  you  will,  Ned  ?  How  can  you  if  you 
go  to  fight  for  the  Boers  ?" 

"  There's  nothing  for  me  to  do  here.  I  want  new 
life.  It  was  you  who  said  that  I  should  go." 

"  For  five  years  you  have  been  devoted  to  Ireland* 
and  now  you  and  Ireland  are  separated  like  two  ships." 

"  Yes,  like  two  ships.  Ireland  is  still  going  Rome- 
ward,  and  Rome  is  not  my  way." 

"  You  are  the  ship,  Ned,  and  you  came  to  harbour 
in  Ireland.  But  you  and  I  are  like  two  ships  that  have 
lain  side  by  side  in  the  harbour,  and  now " 

"  And  now  what,  Ellen  ?    Go  on !" 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  we  were  like  two  ships." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing  I  was  thinking  on  the  hills. 
The  comparison  of  two  ships  rose  up  in  my  mind  on 
the  hill,  and  then  I  remembered  a  passage."  And  when 
he  had  repeated  it  she  said: — 

"  So  there  is  no  hope  for  us  on  earth.  We  are  but 
segments  of  a  starry  curve,  and  must  be  content  with 
our  stellar  friendship.  But,  Ned,  we  shall  never  be 
enemies  on  earth.  I  am  not  your  enemy,  and  never 
shall  be.  So  we  have  nothing  to  think  of  now  but  our 
past  friendship.  The  memory  of  our  past — is  all  that 
remains?  And  it  was  for  that  you  left  America  after 
the  Cuban  war?  There  is  our  child.  You  love  the 
little  boy,  don't  you,  Ned?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  love  the  little  boy.  ...  But 
you'll  bring  him  up  a  Catholic.  You'll  bring  him  up 
to  love  the  things  that  I  hate." 

"  Let  there  be  no  bitterness  between  us  to-night, 
Ned  dear.  Let  there  be  only  love.  If  not  love,  affec- 
tion at  least.  This  is  our  last  night." 

"How  is  that?" 

356 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

"  Because,  Ned,  when  one  is  so  bent  upon  going  as 
you  are  it  is  better  he  should  go  at  once.  I  give  you 
your  freedom.  You  can  go  in  the  morning  or  when 
you  please.  But  remember,  Ned,  that  you  can  come 
back  when  you  please,  that  I  shall  be  always  glad  to 
see  you." 

They  went  up-stairs  and  looked  for  some  time  on 
the  child,  who  was  sleeping.  Ellen  took  him  out  of  his 
bed,  and  she  looked  very  pretty,  Ned  thought,  holding 
the  half-awakened  child,  and  she  kept  the  little  quilt 
about  him  so  that  he  might  not  catch  cold. 

He  put  his  hands  into  his  eyes  and  looked  at  his 
father,  and  then  hid  his  face  in  his  mother's  neck,  for 
the  light  blinded  him  and  he  wished  to  go  to  sleep. 

"  Let  me  put  him  back  in  his  bed,"  Ned  said,  and 
he  took  his  son  and  put  him  back,  and  he  kissed  him. 
As  he  did  so  he  wondered  how  it  was  that  he  could  feel 
so  much  affection  for  his  son  and  at  the  same  time 
desire  to  leave  his  home. 

"  Now,  Ned,  you  must  kiss  me,  and  do  not  think  I 
am  angry  with  you  for  going.  I  know  you  are  dull 
here,  that  you  have  got  nothing  further  to  do  in  Ire- 
land, but  it  will  be  different  when  you  come  back." 

"  And  is  it  possible  that  you  aren't  angry  with  me, 
Ellen,  for  going?" 

"  I  am  sorry  you  are  going,  Ned — in  a  way,  but  I 
should  be  more  sorry  to  see  you  stay  here  and  learn  to 
hate  me." 

"  You  are  very  wise,  Ellen.  But  why  did  you  read 
that  manuscript?" 

"  I  suppose  because  God  wished  me  to." 

One  thing  Ireland  had  done  for  him,  and  for  that 
he  would  be  always  grateful  to  Ireland — Ireland  had 

357 


THE  WILD  GOOSE 

revealed  a  noble  woman  to  him;   and  distance  would 
bring  a  closer  and  more  intimate  appreciation  of  her. 

He  left  early  next  morning  before  she  was  awake  in 
order  to  save  her  the  pain  of  farewells,  and  all  that  day 
in  Dublin  he  walked  about,  possessed  by  the  great 
joyful  yearning  of  the  wild  goose  when  it  rises  one 
bright  morning  from  the  warm  marshes,  scenting  the 
harsh  north  through  leagues  of  air,  and  goes  away  on 
steady  wing-beats.  But  he  did  not  feel  he  was  a  free 
soul  until  the  outlines  of  Howth  began  to  melt  into  the 
grey  drift  of  evening.  There  was  a  little  mist  on  the 
water,  and  he  stood  watching  the  waves  tossing  in  the 
mist  thinking  that  it  were  well  that  he  had  left  home — 
if  he  had  stayed  he  would  have  come  to  accept  all  the 
base  moral  coinage  in  circulation ;  and  he  stood  watch- 
ing the  green  waves  tossing  in  the  mist,  at  one  moment 
ashamed  of  what  he  had  done,  at  the  next  overjoyed 
that  he  had  done  it. 


358 


THE  WAY  BACK 


THE   WAY    BACK 

IT  was  a  pleasure  to  meet,  even  when  they  had  noth- 
ing to  say,  and  the  two  men  had  stopped  to  talk. 

"  Still  in  London,  Rodney." 

"  Yes,  till  the  end  of  the  week ;  and  then  I  go  to 
Italy.  And  you?  You're  going  to  meet  Sir  Owen 
Asher  at  Marseilles." 

"  I  am  going  to  Ireland,"  and,  catching  sight  of  a 
look  of  astonishment  and  disapproval  on  Rodney's  face, 
Harding  began  to  explain  why  he  must  return  to  Ire- 
land. 

"  The  rest  of  your  life  is  quite  clear,"  said  Rodney. 
"  You  knew  from  the  beginning  that  Paris  was  the 
source  of  all  art,  that  everyone  here  who  is  more  dis- 
tinguished than  the  others  has  been  to  Paris.  We  go 
to  Paris  with  baskets  on  our  backs,  and  sticks  in  our 
hands,  and  bring  back  what  we  can  pick  up.  And 
having  lived  immersed  in  art  till  you're  forty,  you 
return  to  the  Catholic  Celt!  Your  biographer  will  be 
puzzled  to  explain  this  last  episode,  and,  however  he 
may  explain  it,  it  will  seem  a  discrepancy." 

"  I  suppose  one  should  think  of  one's  biographer." 

"  It  will  be  more  like  yourself  to  get  Asher  to  land 
you  at  one  of  the  Italian  ports.  We  will  go  to  Perugia 
and  see  Raphael's  first  frescoes,  done  when  he  was  six- 
teen, and  the  town  itself  climbing  down  into  ravines. 
The  streets  are  lonely  at  midday,  but  towards  evening 
a  breeze  blows  up  from  both  seas — Italy  is  very  narrow 
there — and  the  people  begin  to  come  out;  and  from 

361 


THE   WAY   BACK 

the  battlements  one  sees  the  lights  of  Assisi  glimmer- 
ing through  the  dusk." 

"  I  may  never  see  Italy.  Go  on  talking.  I  like  to 
hear  you  talk  about  Italy." 

"  There  are  more  beautiful  things  in  Italy  than  in 
the  rest  of  the  world  put  together,  and  there  is  nothing 
so  beautiful  as  Italy.  Just  fancy  a  man  like  you  never 
having  seen  the  Campagna.  I  remember  opening  my 
shutters  one  morning  in  August  at  Frascati.  The  poi- 
sonous mists  lay  like  clouds,  but  the  sun  came  out  and 
shone  through  them,  and  the  wind  drove  them  before 
it,  and  every  moment  a  hill  appeared,  and  the  great 
aqueducts,  and  the  tombs,  and  the  wild  grasses  at  the 
edge  of  the  tombs  waving  feverishly;  and  here  and 
there  a  pine,  or  group  of  pines  with  tufted  heads,  like 
Turner  used  to  draw.  .  .  .  The  plain  itself  is  so 
shapely.  Rome  lies  like  a  little  dot  in  the  middle  of  it, 
and  it  is  littered  with  ruins.  The  great  tomb  of  Cecilia 
Metella  is  there,  built  out  of  blocks  of  stone  as  big  as 
an  ordinary  room.  He  must  have  loved  her  very  much 
to  raise  such  a  tomb  to  her  memory,  and  she  must  have 
been  a  wonderful  woman."  Rodney  paused  a  moment 
and  then  he  said :  "  The  walls  of  the  tombs  are  let  in 
with  sculpture,  and  there  are  seats  for  wayfarers,  and 
they  will  last  as  long  as  the  world, — they  are  ever- 
lasting." 

"  Of  one  thing  I'm  sure,"  said  Harding.  "  I  must  get 
out  of  London.  I  can't  bear  its  ugliness  any  longer." 

The  two  men  crossed  Piccadilly,  and  Harding  told 
Rodney  Asher's  reason  for  leaving  London. 

"  He  says  he  is  subject  to  nightmares,  and  lately  he 
has  been  waking  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  thinking 
that  London  and  Liverpool  had  joined.  Asher  is  right. 

362 


THE   WAY   BACK 

No  town  ought  to  be  more  than  fifty  miles  long.  I  like 
your  description  of  Perugia.  Every  town  should  be 
walled  round,  now  we  trail  into  endless  suburbs." 

"  But  the  Green  Park  is  beautiful,  and  these  evening 
distances !" 

"  Never  mind  the  Green  Park ;  come  and  have  a  cup 
of  tea.  Asher  has  bought  a  new  picture.  I'd  like  to 
show  it  to  you.  But,"  said  Harding,  "  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  that  I  met  your  model." 

"Lucy  Delaney?    Where?" 

"  Here,  I  met  her  here,"  said  Harding,  and  he  took 
Rodney's  arm  so  that  he  might  be  able  to  talk  to  him 
more  easily.  "  One  evening,  a  week  ago,  I  was  loiter- 
ing, just  as  I  was  loitering  to-day,  and  it  was  at  the 
very  door  of  St.  James's  Hotel  that  she  spoke  to  me." 

"  How  did  she  get  to  London  ?  and  I  didn't  know 
that  you  knew  her." 

"  A  girl  came  up  suddenly  and  asked  me  the  way  to 
the  Gaiety  Theatre,  and  I  told  her,  adding,  however, 
that  the  Gaiety  Theatre  was  closed.  '  What  shall  I 
do?'  I  heard  her  say,  and  she  walked  on;  I  hesitated 
and  then  walked  after  her.  '  I  beg  your  pardon,'  I 
said,  '  the  Gaiety  Theatre  is  closed,  but  there  are  other 
theatres  equally  good.  Shall  I  direct  you  ?'  '  Oh,  I 
don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  have  run  away  from 
home.  ...  I  have  set  fire  to  my  school  and  have  come 
over  to  London  thinking  that  I  might  go  on  the  stage.' 
She  had  set  fire  to  her  school !  I  never  saw  more  win- 
ning eyes.  But  she's  a  girl  men  would  look  after,  and 
not  liking  to  stand  talking  to  her  in  Piccadilly,  I  asked 
her  to  come  down  Berkeley  Street.  I  was  very  curious 
to  know  who  was  this  girl  who  had  set  fire  to  her  school 
and  had  come  over  to  London  to  go  on  the  stage ;  and 

363 


THE   WAY   BACK 

we  walked  on,  she  telling  me  that  she  had  set  fire  to  her 
school  so  that  she  might  be  able  to  get  away  in  the 
confusion.  I  hoped  I  should  not  meet  anyone  I  knew, 
and  let  her  prattle  on  until  we  got  to  the  Square.  The 
Square  shone  like  a  ball-room  with  a  great  plume  of 
green  branches  in  the  middle  and  every  corner  a  niche 
of  gaudy  window  boxes.  Past  us  came  the  season's 
stream  of  carriages,  the  women  resting  against  the 
cushions  looking  like  finely  cultivated  flowers.  The 
beauty  of  the  Square  that  afternoon  astonished  me. 
I  wondered  how  it  struck  Lucy.  Very  likely  she  was 
only  thinking  of  her  Gaiety  Theatre !" 

"  But  how  did  you  know  her  name  ?" 

"  You  remember  it  was  at  the  corner  of  Berkeley 
Square  that  Evelyn  Innes  stood  when  she  went  to  see 
Owen  Asher  for  the  first  time,  she  used  to  tell  me  how 
she  stood  at  the  curb  watching  London  passing  by  her, 
thinking  that  one  day  London  would  be  going  to  hear 
her  sing.  As  soon  as  there  was  a  break  in  the  stream 
of  carriages  I  took  Lucy  across.  We  could  talk  unob- 
served in  the  Square,  and  she  continued  her  story. 
'  I'm  nearly  seventeen/  she  said,  '  and  I  was  sent  back 
to  school  because  I  sat  for  a  sculpture.'  " 

"  What  did  you  sit  for?" 

"  For  a  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  a  priest 
told  on  me." 

"  Then  you're  Lucy  Delaney,  and  the  sculptor  you 
sat  for  is  John  Rodney,  one  of  my  intimate  friends." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  coincidence,"  said  Rodney. 
"  I  never  thought  that  Lucy  would  stay  in  Ireland.  Go 
on  with  your  story." 

"  When  I  found  out  who  she  was  there  seemed  no 
great  harm  in  asking  her  in  to  have  some  tea.  Asher 

364 


THE   WAY   BACK 

will  forgive  you  anything  if  there's  a  woman  in  it ;  you 
may  keep  him  waiting  half  an  hour  if  you  assure  him 
your  appointment  was  with  a  married  woman.  Well, 
Lucy  had  arrived  that  morning  in  London  with  three- 
pence in  her  pocket,  so  I  told  the  footman  to  boil  a 
couple  of  eggs.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  offered 
her  a  substantial  meal,  but  that  would  have  set  the  ser- 
vants talking.  Never  did  a  girl  eat  with  a  better  appe- 
tite, and  when  she  had  finished  a  second  plateful  of 
buttered  toast  she  began  to  notice  the  pictures.  I  could 
see  that  she  had  been  in  a  studio  and  had  talked  about 
art.  It  is  extraordinary  how  quick  a  girl  is  to  acquire 
the  ideas  of  a  man  she  likes.  She  admired  Manet's  pic- 
ture of  Evelyn,  and  I  told  her  Evelyn's  story — knowing 
it  would  interest  her.  '  That  such  a  happy  fate  should 
be  a  woman's  and  that  she  should  reject  it,'  her  eyes 
seemed  to  say.  '  She  is  now/  I  said,  '  singing  Ave 
Marias  at  Wimbledon  for  the  pecuniary  benefit  of  the 
nuns  and  the  possible  salvation  of  her  own  soul.'  Her 
walk  tells  the  length  of  the  limbs  and  the  balance  of 
the  body,  and  my  eyes  followed  her  as  she  moved 
about  the  room,  and  when  I  told  her  I  had  seen  the 
statue  and  had  admired  the  legs,  she  turned  and  said, 
with  a  pretty  pleased  look,  that  you  always  said  that 
she  had  pretty  legs.  When  I  asked  her  if  you  had 
made  love  to  her,  she  said  you  had  not,  that  you  were 
always  too  busy  with  your  sculpture." 

"  One  can't  think  of  two  things  at  the  same  time. 
If  I  had  met  her  in  Paris  it  would  have  been  differ- 
ent." 

"  Unfortunately  I  was  dining  out  that  evening.  It 
was  hard  to  know  what  to  do.  At  last  I  thought  of  a 
lodging-house  kept  by  a  praiseworthy  person,  and  took 

365 


THE   WAY   BACK 

her  round  there  and,  cursing  my  dinner-party,  I  left 
her  in  charge  of  the  landlady." 

"  Like  a  pot  of  jam  left  carefully  under  cover  .  .  . 
That  will  be  all  right  till  to-morrow,"  said  Rodney. 

"  Very  likely.  It  is  humiliating  to  admit  it,  but  it 
is  so;  the  substance  of  our  lives  is  woman;  all  other 
things  are  irrelevancies,  hypocrisies,  subterfuges.  We 
sit  talking  of  sport  and  politics,  and  all  the  while  our 
hearts  are  filled  with  memories  of  women  and  plans  for 
the  capture  of  women.  Consciously  or  unconsciously 
we  regard  every  young  woman  from  the  one  point  of 
view,  '  Will  she  do  ?'  You  know  the  little  look  that 
passes  between  men  and  women  as  their  hansoms  cross  ? 
Do  not  the  eyes  say :  '  Yes,  yes,  if  we  were  to  meet 
we  might  come  to  an  understanding  ?'  We're  ashamed 
that  it  should  be  so,  but  it  is  the  law  that  is  over  us. 
And  that  night  at  my  dinner-party,  while  talking  to 
wise  mammas  and  their  more  or  less  guileless  daugh- 
ters, I  thought  of  the  disgrace  if  it  were  found  out  that 
I  had  picked  up  a  girl  in  the  street  and  put  her  in 
charge  of  the  landlady." 

"  But  one  couldn't  leave  her  to  the  mercy  of  the 
street." 

"  Quite  so ;  but  I'm  speaking  now  of  what  was  in 
the  back  of  my  mind." 

"  The  pot  of  jam  carefully  covered  up,"  said  Rodney, 
laughing. 

"  Yes,  the  pot  of  jam ;  and  while  talking  about  the 
responsibilities  of  Empire,  I  was  thinking  that  I  might 
send  out  for  a  canvas  in  the  morning  and  sketch  some- 
thing out  on  it;  and  when  I  got  home  I  looked  out  a 
photograph  of  some  women  bathing.  I  expected  her 
about  twelve,  and  she  found  me  hard  at  work. 

366 


THE   WAY   BACK 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  that  you  were  a  painter,"  she 
said. 

"  No  more  I  am,  I  used  to  be ;  and  thinking  of 
Rodney's  statue  and  what  I  can  see  of  you  through 
that  dress  I  thought  I'd  try  and  do  something  like 
you." 

"  I'm  thinner  than  that." 

"  You're  not  thin." 

"  We  argued  the  point,  and  I  tried  to  persuade  her 
to  give  me  a  sitting.  She  broke  away,  saying  that  it 
wasn't  the  same  thing,  and  that  she  had  sat  for  you 
because  there  were  no  models  in  Dublin.  '  You've 
been  very  good  to  me,'  she  said,  '  I  should  have  had 
to  sleep  in  the  Park  last  night  if  it  had  not  been  for 
you.  Do  continue  to  be  good  to  me  and  get  me  on 
the  stage,  for  if  you  don't  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to 
Dublin  or  to  America.'  '  America,'  I  said.  '  Do  you 
want  to  go  to  America  ?'  She  didn't  answer,  and  when 
she  was  pressed  for  an  answer,  she  said :  '  Well,  all 
the  Irish  go  to  America,  I  didn't  mean  anything  more ; 
I  am  too  worried  to  know  what  I  am  saying,'  and 
then,  seeing  me  turn  round  to  look  at  my  picture,  she 
said,  '  I  will  sit  to  you  one  of  these  days,  but  I  am 
too  unhappy  and  frightened  now.  I  don't  like  saying 
no;  it  is  always  disagreeable  to  say  no.'  And  seeing 
it  would  give  her  no  pleasure  to  sit,  I  did  not  ask  her 
again." 

"  I'm  sorry  you  missed  seeing  something  very  beau- 
tiful." 

"  I  daresay  she'd  have  sat  if  I'd  have  pressed  her, 
but  she  was  under  my  protection,  and  it  seemed  cow- 
ardly to  press  her,  for  she  could  not  refuse.  Suddenly 
we  seemed  to  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other, 

367 


THE   WAY   BACK 

and  I  asked  her  if  she'd  like  to  see  a  manager,  and  as 
it  seemed  a  pity  she  should  waste  herself  on  the  Gaiety 
Theatre  I  took  her  to  see  Sir  Edward  Higgins.  The 
mummer  was  going  out  to  lunch  with  a  lord  and  could 
only  think  of  the  people  he  was  going  to  meet.  So  we 
went  to  Dorking's  Theatre,  and  we  found  Dorking  with 
his  acting  manager.  The  acting  manager  had  been 
listening  for  a  long  while  and  wasn't  sorry  for  the 
interruption.  But  we  had  not  been  talking  for  more 
than  two  or  three  minutes  when  the  call-boy  brought  in 
a  bundle  of  newspaper  cuttings,  and  the  mummer  had 
not  the  patience  to  wait  until  he  was  alone — one  reads 
one's  cuttings  alone — he  stuck  his  knees  together  and 
opened  the  bundle,  columns  of  print  flowed  over  his 
knees,  and  after  telling  us  what  the  critics  were  saying 
about  him,  mention  was  made  of  Ibsen,  and  we  won- 
dered if  there  was  any  chance  of  getting  the  public  to 
come  to  see  a  good  play.  You  know  the  conversation 
drifts." 

"  You  couldn't  get  her  an  engagement,"  said  Rod- 
ney, "  I  should  have  thought  she  was  suited  to  the 
stage." 

"  If  there  had  been  time  I  could  have  done  some- 
thing for  her ;  she's  a  pretty  girl,  but  you  see  all  these 
things  take  a  long  time,  and  Lucy  wanted  an  engage- 
ment at  once.  When  we  left  the  theatre  I  began  to 
realise  the  absurdity  of  the  adventure,  and  the  danger 
to  which  I  was  exposing  myself.  I,  a  man  of  over 
forty,  seeking  the  seduction  of  a  girl  of  seventeen — for 
that  is  the  plain  English  of  it.  We  walked  on  side  by 
side,  and  I  asked  myself,  '  What  am  I  to  her,  what 
is  she  to  me?  But  one  may  argue  with  one's  self  for- 
ever." 

368 


THE  WAY   BACK 

"  One  may  indeed,"  said  Rodney,  laughing,  "  one 
may  argue,  but  the  law  that  is  over  us." 

"  Well,  the  law  that  is  over  us  compelled  me  to  take 
her  to  lunch,  and  she  enjoyed  the  lunch  and  the  great 
restaurant.  '  What  a  number  of  butlers/  she  said. 
After  lunch  the  same  problem  confronted  me:  Was  I 
or  was  I  not  going  to  pursue  the  adventure?  I  only 
knew  for  certain  that  I  could  not  walk  about  the 
streets  with  Lucy.  She  is  a  pretty  girl,  but  she  looked 
odd  enough  in  her  country  clothes.  Suddenly  it  struck 
me  that  I  might  take  her  into  the  country,  to  Wim- 
bledon." 

"  And  you  took  her  there  and  heard  Evelyn  Innes 
sing.  And  what  did  Lucy  think  ?  A  very  pretty  exper- 
iment in  experimental  psychology." 

"  The  voice  is  getting  thinner.  She  sang  Stradella's 
Chanson  D'Eglise,  and  Lucy  could  hardly  speak  when 
we  came  out  of  church.  '  Oh,  what  a  wonderful  voice,' 
she  said,  '  do  you  think  she  regrets  ?'  '  Whatever  we 
do  we  regret/  I  answered,  not  because  I  thought  the 
observation  original,  but  because  it  seemed  suitable  to 
the  occasion ;  '  and  we  regret  still  more  what  we  don't 
do.'  And  I  asked  myself  if  I  should  write  to  Lucy's 
people  as  we  walked  about  the  Common.  But  Lucy 
wanted  to  hear  about  Owen  Asher  and  Evelyn,  and 
the  operas  she  had  sung,  and  I  told  the  story  of  Tann- 
hauser  and  Tristan.  She  had  never  heard  such  stories 
before,  and,  as  we  got  up  from  the  warm  grass,  she 
said  that  she  could  imagine  Evelyn  standing  in  the 
nuns'  garden  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  calm  skies, 
getting  courage  from  them  to  persevere.  Wasn't  it 
clever  of  her?  We  dined  together  in  a  small  restau- 
rant and  I  spent  the  evening  with  her  in  the  lodging- 
24  369 


THE  WAY   BACK 

house;  the  landlady  let  us  her  sitting-room.  Lucy 
is  charming,  and  her  happiness  is  volatile  and  her 
melancholy  too;  she's  persuasive  and  insinuating  as 
a  perfume;  and  when  I  left  the  house,  it  was  as  if 
I  had  come  out  of  a  moonlight  garden.  '  Thy  green 
eyes  look  upon  me  ...  I  love  the  moonlight  of  thine 
eyes.'  " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Rodney,  "  what  happened  after 
that?" 

"  The  most  disagreeable  thing  that  ever  happened  to 
me  in  my  life.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  really 
afraid.  I  didn't  until  a  fellow  came  up  to  me  at  the 
club  and  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  detectives.  Fear 
is  a  terrible  thing,  Rodney;  there  is  nothing  so  de- 
moralising as  fear.  You  know  my  staid  old  club  of 
black  mahogany  and  low  ceilings,  where  half  a  dozen 
men  sit  dining  and  talking  about  hunting  and  two- 
year-olds.  There  is  a  man  in  that  club  who  has  asked 
me  for  the  last  ten  years  what  I  am  going  to  do  with 
my  two-year-olds.  He  cannot  remember  that  I  never 
had  a  two-year-old.  But  that  night  he  wasn't  tipsy,  and 
his  sobriety  impressed  me;  he  sat  down  at  my  table, 
and  after  a  while  he  leaned  across  and  asked  me  if  I 
knew  that  two  detectives  had  been  asking  after  me. 
'  You  had  better  look  to  this.  These  things  turn  out 
devilish  unpleasantly.  Of  course  there  is  nothing 
wrong,  but  you  don't  want  to  appear  in  the  police  court,' 
he  said." 

"Had  she  told?" 

"  She  was  more  frightened  than  I  was  when  I  told 
her  what  had  happened,  but  she  had  done  the  mischief 
nevertheless.  She  had  written  to  her  people  saying 
that  she  had  met  a  friend  of  Mr.  Rodney,  and  that 

370 


THE   WAY   BACK 

he  was  looking  after  her,  and  that  he  lived  in  Berkeley 
Square;  she  was  quite  simple  and  truthful,  and  not- 
withstanding my  fear  I  was  sorry  for  her,  for  we  might 
have  gone  away  together  somewhere,  but,  of  course, 
that  was  impossible  now ;  her  folly  left  no  course  open 
to  me  except  to  go  to  Dublin  and  explain  everything  to 
her  parents." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Rodney,  "  that  there  was  any- 
thing against  you." 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  judging  myself  according  to  inward 
motives,  and  for  some  time  I  did  not  see  how  admira- 
ble my  conduct  would  seem  to  an  unintelligent  jury. 
There  is  nothing  to  do  between  London  and  Holyhead, 
and  I  composed  the  case  for  the  prosecution  and  the 
case  for  the  defence  and  the  judge's  summing  up. 
I  wrote  the  articles  in  the  newspapers  next  day  and 
the  paragraphs  in  the  evening  papers :  .  .  .  I  had  met 
her  at  the  corner  of  Berkeley  Street  and  she  had  asked 
me  the  way  to  the  Gaiety  Theatre ;  and,  being  anxious 
for  her  safety,  I  had  asked  her  why  she  wanted  the 
Gaiety  Theatre,  for  of  course  if  the  case  came  to  trial 
I  should  not  have  approved  of  the  Gaiety,  and  my  dis- 
appproval  would  have  won  all  the  Methodists.  The 
girl  had  told  me  that  she  had  set  fire  to  her  school,  and 
an  excitable  girl  like  that  would  soon  be  lost.  I  don't 
know  what  expression  the  newspapers  would  use — '  in 
the  labyrinths  of  London  vice,'  she  was  just  the  kind 
of  girl  that  a  little  good  advice  might  save  from  ruin. 
She  had  told  me  that  she  knew  you,  I  was  her  only 
friend,  etc.  What  could  I  do  better  than  to  take  her 
to  a  lodging-house  where  I  had  lodged  myself  and  put 
her  in  charge  of  the  landlady?  The  landlady  would 
be  an  important  witness,  and  I  think  it  was  at  Rugby 

371 


THE  WAY   BACK 

Junction  that  I  began  to  hear  the  judge  saying  I  had 
acted  with  great  discretion  and  kindness,  and  left  the 
court  without  a  stain  upon  my  character.  Neverthe- 
less, I  should  have  appeared  in  a  police  court  on  a 
charge  of  abducting  a  girl,  a  seventeen-year-old 
maiden ;  and  not  everyone  would  be  duped  by  outward 
appearances,  many  would  have  guessed  the  truth,  and, 
though  we're  all  the  same,  every  one  tries  to  hide  the 
secret  of  our  common  humanity.  But  I  had  forgotten 
to  ask  Lucy  for  the  address.  I  only  knew  the  name, 
and  that  the  Delaneys  were  cheese-mongers,  so  I  had 
to  call  on  every  cheese-monger  called  Delaney.  My 
peregrinations  were  too  absurd.  '  Have  you  got  a 
daughter  ?  Has  she  left  you  and  gone  to  London  ?  And 
that  all  day  in  one  form  or  another,  for  it  was  not  until 
evening  that  I  found  the  Delaneys  I  was  seeking.  The 
shop  was  shutting  up,  but  there  was  a  light  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  one  of  the  boys  let  me  in  and  I  went  up  the 
narrow  stairs." 

"  I  know  them,"  said  Rodney. 

"  And  the  room " 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Rodney. 

"  The  horse-hair  chairs  full  of  holes." 

"  I  know  the  rails,"  said  Rodney,  "  they  catch  you 
about  here,  across  the  thighs." 

"  The  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room ;  the  smell  of 
the  petroleum  lamp  and  the  great  chair " 

"  I  know,"  said  Rodney,  "  the  Buddah  seated !  An 
enormous  head!  The  smoking-cap  and  the  tassel 
hanging  out  of  it !" 

"  The  great  cheeks  hanging  and  the  little  eyes,  intel- 
ligent eyes,  too,  under  the  eyebrows,  the  only  anima- 
tion in  his  face.  He  must  be  sixteen  stone !" 


THE   WAY   BACK 

"  He  is  eighteen." 

"  The  long  clay  pipe  and  the  fat  hands  with  the  nails 
bitten." 

"  I  see  you  have  been  observing  him,"  said  Rodney. 

"  The  brown  waistcoat  with  the  white  bone  buttons, 
curving  over  the  belly,  and  the  belly  shelving  down  into 
the  short  fat  thighs,  and  the  great  feet  wrapped  in 
woollen  slippers !" 

"  He  suffers  terribly,  and  hardly  dares  to  stir  out  of 
that  chair  on  account  of  the  stone  in  the  bladder,  which 
he  won't  have  removed." 

"  How  characteristic  the  room  seemed  to  me,"  said 
Harding.  "  The  piano  against  the  wall  near  the  win- 
dow." 

"  I  know,"  said  Rodney.  "  Lucy  used  to  sit  there 
playing.  She  plays  beautifully." 

"  Yes,  she  plays  very  well." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Rodney,  "  what  happened  ?" 

"  You  know  the  mother,  the  thin  woman  with  a 
pretty  figure  and  the  faded  hair  and  the  features  like 
Lucy's." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  had  just  begun  my  little  explanation  about  the 
top  of  Berkeley  Square,  how  a  girl  came  up  to  me  and 
asked  me  the  way  to  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  when  this 
little  woman  rushed  forward  and,  taking  hold  of  both 
my  hands,  said :  '  We  are  so  much  obliged  to  you ; 
and  we  do  not  know  how  much  to  thank  you.'  A  chair 
was  pushed  forward " 

"Which  chair?"  said  Rodney.  "I  know  them  all. 
Was  it  the  one  with  the  hole  in  the  middle,  or  was  the 
hole  in  the  side?" 

"  '  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you/  said  Mrs.  Delaney,  '  I 
373 


THE   WAY   BACK 

don't  know  what  would  have  happened.'  '  We've  much 
to  thank  you  for,'  said  the  big  man,  and  he  begged  to 
be  excused  for  not  getting  up.  His  wife  interrupted 
him  in  an  explanation  regarding  his  illness,  and  gradu- 
ally I  began  to  see  that,  from  their  point  of  view,  I  was 
Lucy's  saviour,  a  white  Knight,  a  modern  Sir  Galahad. 
They  hoped  I  had  suffered  no  inconvenience  when  the 
detectives  called  at  the  Club.  They  had  communicated 
with  Scotland  Yard,  not  because  they  suspected  me  of 
wishing  to  abduct  their  daughter,  but  because  they 
wished  to  recover  their  daughter,  and  it  was  important 
that  she  should  be  recovered  at  once,  for  she  was  en- 
gaged to  be  married  to  a  mathematical  instrument 
maker  who  was  on  his  way  from  Chicago;  he  was 
expected  in  a  few  days ;  he  was  at  that  moment  on  the 
Atlantic,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  admirable  con- 
duct, Mrs.  Delaney  did  not  know  what  story  she  could 
have  told  Mr.  Wainscott" 

"  So  Lucy  is  going  to  marry  a  mathematical  instru- 
ment maker  in  Chicago  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Harding,  "  and  she  is  probably  married 
to  him  by  now.  It  went  to  my  heart  to  tell  her  that  her 
mother  was  coming  over  to  fetch  her,  and  that  the 
mathematical  instrument  maker  would  arrive  early  next 
week.  But  I  had  to  tell  her  these  unpleasant  things,  for 
I  could  not  take  her  away  in  Owen  Asher's  yacht,  her 
age  and  the  circumstances  forbade  an  agreeable  episode 
among  the  Greek  Islands.  She  is  charming.  .  .  .  Poor 
Lucy !  She  slipped  down  on  the  floor  very  prettily  and 
her  hair  fell  on  my  knees.  '  It  isn't  fair,  you're  going 
away  on  a  yacht,  and  I  am  going  to  Chicago.'  And 
when  I  lifted  her  up  she  sat  upon  my  knees  and  wept. 
'  Why  don't  you  take  me  away  ?'  she  said.  '  My  dear 

374 


THE   WAY   BACK 

Lucy,  I'm  forty  and  you're  seventeen.'  Her  eyes  grew 
enigmatic.  '  I  shall  never  live  with  him,'  she  said." 

"Did  you  kiss  her?" 

"  We  spent  the  evening  together  and  I  was  sorry  for 
her." 

"  But  you  don't  know  for  certain  that  she  married 
Wainscott." 

"  Yes.  Wainscott  wrote  me  a  letter,"  and  after  some 
searching  in  his  pockets  Harding  found  the  letter. 

"  '  DEAR  SIR, — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delaney  have  told  me 
of  your  kindness  to  Lucy,  and  Lucy  has  told  me  of  the 
trouble  you  took  trying  to  get  her  an  engagement,  and 
I  write  to  thank  you.  Lucy  did  not  know  at  the  time 
that  I  had  become  a  partner  in  the  firm  of  Sheldon 
&  Flint,  and  she  thought  that  she  might  go  on  the 
stage  and  make  money  by  singing,  for  she  has  a  pretty 
voice,  to  help  me  to  buy  a  partnership  in  the  business 
of  Sheldon  &  Flint.  It  was  a  kind  thought.  Lucy's 
heart  is  in  the  right  place,  and  it  was  kind  of  you,  sir, 
to  take  her  to  different  managers.  She  has  given  me  an 
exact  account  of  all  you  did  for  her. 

"  '  We  are  going  to  be  married  to-morrow,  and  next 
week  we  sail  for  the  States.  I  live,  sir,  in  Chicago  City, 
and  if  you  are  ever  in  America  Lucy  and  myself  will 
esteem  it  an  honour  if  you  will  come  to  see  us. 

"  '  Lucy  would  write  to  you  herself  if  she  were  not 
tired,  having  had  to  look  after  many  things. 
"  '  I  am,  dear  sir, 

"  '  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  '  JAMES  WAINSCOTT/  ''' 

"  Lucy  wanted  life,"  said  Rodney,  "  and  she  will  find 
her  adventure  sooner  or  later.  Poor  Lucy !" 

375 


THE   WAY   BACK 

"  Lucy  is  the  stuff  the  great  women  are  made  of  and 
will  make  a  noise  in  the  world  yet." 

"  It  is  well  she  has  gone ;  for  it  is  many  years  since 
there  was  honour  in  Ireland  for  a  Grania." 

"  Maybe  you'll  meet  her  in  Paris  and  will  do  another 
statue  from  her." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  the  same  thing.  Ah !  my  statue, 
my  poor  statue.  Nothing  but  a  lump  of  clay.  I  nearly 
went  out  of  my  mind.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  the 
priest  who  ordered  it  to  be  broken.  But  no,  two  little 
boys  who  heard  a  priest  talking.  They  tell  strange 
stories  in  Dublin  about  that  statue.  It  appears  that, 
after  seeing  it,  Father  McCabe  went  straight  to  Father 
Brennan,  and  the  priests  sat  till  midnight,  sipping  their 
punch  and  considering  this  fine  point  of  theology — if  a 
man  may  ask  a  woman  to  sit  naked  to  him ;  and  then  if 
it  would  be  justifiable  to  employ  a  naked  woman  for  a 
statue  of  the  Virgin.  Father  Brennan  said, '  Nakedness 
is  not  a  sin/  and  Father  McCabe  said,  '  Nakedness  may 
not  be  in  itself  a  sin,  but  it  leads  to  sin,  and  is  there- 
fore unjustifiable.'  At  their  third  tumbler  of  punch 
they  had  reached  Raphael,  and  at  the  fourth  Father 
McCabe  held  that  bad  statues  were  more  likely  to  ex- 
cite devotional  feelings  than  good  ones,  bad  statues 
being  further  removed  from  perilous  Nature." 

"  I  can  see  the  two  priests,  I  can  hear  them.  If  an 
exception  be  made  in  favour  of  the  Virgin,  would  the 
sculptor  be  justified  in  employing  a  model  to  do  a 
statue  of  a  saint?" 

"  No  one  supposes  that  Rubens  did  not  employ  a 
model  for  his  descent  from  the  Cross,"  said  Rodney. 

"  A  man  is  different,  that's  what  the  priests  would 
say." 

376 


"  Yet,  that  slender  body,  slipping  like  a  cut  flower 
into  women's  hands,  has  inspired  more  love  in  woman 
than  the  Virgin  has  in  men." 

"  I  can  see  these  two  obtuse  priests.  I  can  hear 
them.  I  should  like  to  write  the  scene,"  said  Harding. 

The  footman  brought  in  the  tea,  and  Harding  told 
him  that  if  Mr.  Carmady  called  he  was  to  show  him 
in,  and  it  was  not  long  after  that  a  knock  came  at  the 
front  door. 

"  You  have  come  in  time  for  a  cup  of  tea,  Carmady. 
You  know  Rodney?" 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Carmady  used  to  come  to  my  studio.  Many's  the 
time  we've  had  about  the  possibility  of  a  neo-pagan 
Celtic  renaissance.  But  I  did  not  know  you  were  in 
London.  When  did  you  arrive?" 

"  Yesterday.  I'm  going  to  South  Africa.  There's 
fighting  going  on  there,  and  it  is  a  brand  new  country." 

"  Three  Irishmen  meet,"  said  Rodney ;  "  one  seeking 
a  country  with  a  future,  one  seeking  a  country  with  a 
past,  and  one  thinking  of  going  back  to  a  country  with- 
out past  or  future." 

"  Is  Harding  going  back  to  Ireland  ?"  said  Carmady. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rodney.  "  You  tried  to  snuff  out  the 
Catholic  candle,  but  Harding  hopes  to  trim  it." 

"  I'm  tired  of  talking  about  Ireland.  I've  talked 
enough." 

"  This  is  the  last  time,  Carmady,  you'll  be  called  to 
talk  about  Ireland.  We'd  like  to  hear  you." 

"  There  is  no  free  thought,  and  where  there  is  no 
free  thought  there  is  no  intellectual  life.  The  priests 
take  their  ideas  from  Rome  cut  and  dried  like  tobacco 
and  the  people  take  their  ideas  from  the  priests  cut  and 

377 


THE   WAY   BACK 

dried  like  tobacco.  Ireland  is  a  terrifying  example  of 
what  becomes  of  a  country  when  it  accepts  prejudices 
and  conventions  and  ceases  to  inquire  out  the  truth." 

"  You  don't  believe,"  said  Harding,  "  in  the  possi- 
bility of  a  Celtic  renaissance — that  with  the  revival  of 
the  languages?" 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  Catholics.  The  Catholic  kneels 
like  the  camel  that  burdens  may  be  laid  upon  him.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do,  Harding,  that  the  art  and  litera- 
ture of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  were  due 
to  a  sudden  dispersal,  a  sudden  shedding  of  the  preju- 
dices and  conventions  of  the  middle  ages ;  the  renais- 
sance was  a  joyous  returning  to  Hellenism,  the  source 
of  all  beauty.  There  is  as  little  free  love  in  Ireland  as 
there  is  free  thought;  men  have  ceased  to  care  for 
women  and  women  to  care  for  men.  Nothing  thrives 
in  Ireland  but  the  celibate,  the  priest,  the  nun,  and  the 
ox.  There  is  no  unfaith,  and  the  violence  of  the  priest 
is  against  any  sensual  transgression.  A  girl  marries  at 
once  or  becomes  a  nun — a  free  girl  is  a  danger.  There 
is  no  courtship,  there  is  no  walking  out,  and  the  passion 
which  is  the  direct  inspiration  of  all  the  world's  music 
and  art  is  reduced  to  the  mere  act  of  begetting  chil- 
dren." 

"  Love  books  his  passage  in  the  emigrant  ship,"  said 
Rodney.  "  You  speak  truly.  There  are  no  bastards 
in  Ireland;  and  the  bastard  is  the  outward  sign  of 
inward  grace." 

"  That  which  tends  to  weaken  life  is  the  only  evil, 
that  which  strengthens  life  the  only  good,  and  the  result 
of  this  puritanical  Catholicism  will  be  an  empty  Ire- 
land." 

"  Dead  beyond  hope  of  resurrection,"  said  Rodney. 
378 


THE   WAY   BACK 

"  I  don't  say  that ;  a  wave  of  paganism  may  arise, 
and  only  a  pagan  revival  can  save  Ireland." 

"  Ah,  the  beautiful  pagan  world !"  said  Rodney ; 
"  morality  is  but  a  dream,  an  academic  discussion,  but 
beauty  is  a  reality." 

"  Out  of  the  billions  of  men  that  have  been  born  into 
the  world,"  said  Carmady,  "  I  am  only  sure  that  two 
would  have  been  better  unborn;  and  the  second  was 
but  a  reincarnation  of  the  first." 

"  And  who  were  they  ?"  said  Rodney. 

"  St.  Paul  and  Luther.  Had  it  not  been  for  Paul,  the 
whole  ghostly  theory  would  have  been  a  failure,  and 
had  it  not  been  for  Luther  the  name  of  Christ  would 
be  forgotten  now.  When  the  acetic  monk,  barefooted, 
ragged,  with  prayer-haunted  eyes,  went  to  Rome,  Rome 
had  reverted  to  her  ancient  paganism,  statues  took  the 
place  of  sacraments,  and  the  cardinals  drove  about 
Rome  with  their  mistresses." 

"  The  Pope,  too,"  said  Rodney. 

"  Everything  was  for  the  best  when  the  pilgrim  monk 
turned  in  shame  and  horror  from  the  awakening;  the 
kingdom  of  the  earth  was  cursed.  We  certainly  owe 
the  last  four  hundred  years  of  Christianity  to  Luther." 

"  I  wonder  if  that  is  so,"  said  Rodney. 

After  a  pause,  Carmady  continued,  "  Belief  is  de- 
clining, but  those  who  disavow  the  divinity  of  Christ 
eagerly  insist  that  they  retain  his  morality — the  cow- 
ardly morality  of  the  weak  who  demand  a  redeemer  to 
redeem  them.  The  morality  of  the  Ghetto  prevails ; 
Christians  are  children  of  the  Ghetto." 

"  It  is  given  to  men  to  choose  between  sacraments 
and  statues,"  said  Rodney.  "  Beauty  is  a  reality,  moral- 
ity is  a  myth,  and  Ireland  has  always  struck  me  as  a 

379 


THE   WAY   BACK 

place  for  which  God  had  intended  to  do  something,  but 
He  changed  his  mind  and  that  change  of  mind  hap- 
pened about  a  thousand  years  ago.  Quite  true  that  the 
Gael  was  hunted  as  if  he  were  vermin  for  centuries, 
and  had  to  think  how  to  save  his  life.  But  there  is  no 
use  thinking  what  the  Gael  might  have  done.  It  is 
quite  certain  he'll  never  do  it  now — the  time  has  gone 
by;  everything  has  been  done  and  gloriously." 

And  for  a  long  while  Rodney  spoke  of  Italy. 

"  I'll  show  you  a  city,"  he  said,  "  no  bigger  than 
Rathmines,  and  in  it  Michael  Angelo,  Donatello,  Del 
Sarto,  and  Da  Vinci  lived,  and  lived  contempora- 
neously. Now  what  have  these  great  pagans  left  the 
poor  Catholic  Celt  to  do  ?  All  that  he  was  intended  to 
do  he  did  in  the  tenth  century.  Since  then  he  has  pro- 
duced an  incredible  number  of  priests  and  policemen, 
some  fine  prize-fighters,  'and  some  clever  lawyers ;  but 
nothing  more  serious.  Ireland  is  too  far  north.  Sculp- 
ture does  not  get  farther  north  than  Paris — oranges 
and  sculpture!  the  orange  zone  and  its  long  cigars, 
cigars  eight  inches  long,  a  penny  each,  and  lasting  the 
whole  day.  They  are  lighted  from  a  taper  that  is  passed 
round  in  the  cafes.  The  fruit  that  one  can  buy  for  three 
halfpence,  enough  for  a  meal!  And  the  eating  of  the 
fruit  by  the  edge  of  the  canal — seeing  beautiful  things 
all  the  while.  But,  Harding,  you  sit  there  saying  noth- 
ing. No,  you're  not  going  back  to  Ireland.  Before  you 
came  in,  Carmady,  I  was  telling  Harding  that  he  was 
not  acting  fairly  towards  his  biographer.  The  poor 
man  will  not  be  able  to  explain  this  Celtic  episode  satis- 
factorily. Nothing  short  of  a  Balzac  could  make  it 
convincing." 

Rodney  laughed  loudly;    the  idea  amused  him,  and 


THE   WAY   BACK 

he  could  imagine  a  man  refraining  from  any  excess 
that  might  disturb  and  perplex  or  confuse  his  biog- 
rapher. 

"  How  did  the  Celtic  idea  come  to  you,  Harding  ? 
Do  you  remember  ?" 

"  How  do  ideas  come  to  anyone  ?"  said  Harding. 
"  A  thought  passes.  A  sudden  feeling  comes  over  you, 
and  you're  never  the  same  again.  Looking  across  a 
park  with  a  view  of  the  mountains  in  the  distance,  I 
perceived  a  pathetic  beauty  in  the  country  itself  that  I 
had  not  perceived  before ;  and  a  year  afterwards  I  was 
driving  about  the  Dublin  mountains,  and  met  two 
women  on  the  road ;  there  was  something  pathetic  and 
wistful  about  them,  something  dear,  something  inti- 
mate, and  I  felt  drawn  towards  them.  I  felt  I  should 
like  to  live  among  these  people  again.  There  is  a 
proverb  in  Irish  which  says  that  no  man  ever  wanders 
far  from  his  grave  sod.  We  are  thrown  out,  and  we 
circle  a  while  in  the  air,  and  return  to  the  feet  of  the 
thrower.  But  what  astonished  me  is  the  interest  that 
everybody  takes  in  my  departure.  Everyone  seems 
agreed  that  nothing  could  be  more  foolish,  nothing  more 
mad.  But  if  I  were  to  go  to  meet  Asher  at  Marseilles, 
and  cruise  with  him  in  the  Greek  Islands,  and  go  on  to 
Cairo,  and  spend  the  winter  talking  to  wearisome 
society,  everyone  would  consider  my  conduct  most 
rational.  You,  my  dear  friend,  Rodney,  you  tempt  me 
with  Italy  and  conversations  about  yellowing  marbles ; 
and  you  won't  be  angry  with  me  when  I  tell  you  that  all 
your  interesting  utterances  about  the  Italian  renais- 
sance would  not  interest  me  half  so  much  as  what 
Paddy  Durkin  and  Father  Pat  will  say  to  me  on  the 
roadside." 

381 


4 


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